“It is my impression,” said Dolly, “that something is going to happen.”
She was not in the best of spirits. She could not have explained why.
Griffith was safe, at least, though he had been detained a week longer
than he had anticipated, and consequently their meeting would have to be
deferred; but though this had been a disappointment, Dolly was used
to such disappointments, and besides the most formidable part of the
waiting was over, for it was settled now that he would be home in two
days. It was Tuesday now, and on Thursday he was to return, and she
was going to Bloomsbury Place in the afternoon, and he was to join the
family tea as he had used to do in the old times. But still she did not
feel quite easy. She was restless and uncomfortable in spite of herself,
and was conscious of being troubled by a vague presentiment of evil.
“It is not like me to be blue,” she said to herself; “but I am blue
to-day. I wonder what is going on at home.”
Then, as was quite natural, her thoughts wandered to Mollie, and
she began to ponder upon what Aimée had told her. How were matters
progressing, and what was going to be the end of it all? The child's
danger was plainer to her than it was to Aimée; and, fond as she was of
Mollie, she had determined to improve the occasion of her visit home,
by taking the fair delinquent aside and administering a sound lecture
to her. She would tell her the truth, at least, and try to open her
innocent eyes to the fact that Mr. Gerald Chandos was not a man of the
King Cophetua stamp, and that there was neither romance nor poetry in
allowing such a man to amuse himself at her expense.
Poor Mollie! It would be a humiliating view to take of a first conquest,
but it would be the best thing for her in the end. Dolly sighed over
the mere prospect of the task before her. She remembered what her first
conquest had been, and how implicitly she had believed in her new power,
and how trustingly she had swallowed every sugared nothing, and how she
had revelled in the field of possible romance which had seemed spread
before her, until she had awakened one fine day to find the first
flush of her triumph fading, and her adorer losing his attractions and
becoming rather tame. That had been long ago, even before Griffith's
time, but she had not forgotten the experience, and she knew it
would have been a severe shock to _her_ innocent self-love and
self-gratulation, if any one had hinted to her that there was a doubt of
her captive's honesty. She was roused from her reverie by a message from
Miss MacDowlas. It was only a commonplace sort of message. There were
some orders to be left at the poulterer's and fruiterer's, and some
bills to be paid in town, and, these affairs being her business, Miss
MacDowlas had good-naturedly ordered the carriage for her, as she had a
long round to make.
Dolly got up and laid her work aside. She was not sorry for the
opportunity of going out, so she ran up-stairs with some alacrity to
put on her hat, and, having dressed, went to Miss MacDowlas for more
particular instructions.
“You are looking rather pale and the drive will do you good,” said that
lady. “Call at Pullet's and pay his bill, and order the things on his
list first. By the way, it was when I drove round to give orders to
Pullet the other day, that I saw your pretty sister with Gerald Chandos.
She is too pretty, far too pretty, and far too young and inexperienced,
to be giving private interviews to such people as Gerald Chandos,”
sharply.
“Private!” repeated Dolly, with some indignation. “I think that is a
mistake. Mr. Gerald Chandos has no need to make his interview private.
The doors are open to him at Bloomsbury Place so long as he behaves
himself.”
“The more is the pity,” answered Miss MacDowlas; “but that this was a
private interview I am certain. My pretty Miss Innocence came up the
street slowly with her handsome baby-face on fire, and two minutes later
Gerald Chandos followed her in a wondrous hurry, and joined her
and carried her off, looking very guilty and charming, and a trifle
reluctant, I must admit.”
Dolly's cheeks flushed, and her heart began to beat hotly. If this was
the case it was simply disgraceful, and Miss Mollie was allowing herself
to be led too far.
“I am sorry to hear this,” she said to Miss Mac-Dowlas, “but I am
indebted to you for telling me. I will attend to it when I go home on
Thursday, and,” with a flash of fire, “if it is needful I will attend to
Mr. Gerald Chandos himself.”
She entered the carriage, feeling hot with anger and distress. She had
not expected such a blow, even though she had told herself that she was
prepared to hear of any romantic imprudence. And then in the midst of
her anger she began to pity Mollie, as it seemed natural to pity her
always when she was indiscreet. Who had ever taught her to be discreet,
poor child? Had she herself? No, she had not. She had been fond of her
and proud of her beauty, but she had laughed at her unsophisticated,
thoughtless way with the rest, and somehow they had all looked upon
her as they looked upon Tod,--as rather a good joke. Dolly quite hated
herself as she remembered how she had related her own little escapades
for the edification of the family circle, and how Mollie had enjoyed
them more than any one else. She had never overstepped the actual
bounds of propriety herself, but she had been coquettish and fond of
admiration, and had delighted to hold her own against the world.
“I was n't a good example to her!” she cried, remorsefully. “She ought
to have had a good, wise mother. I wish she had. I wish I had one
myself.”
And she burst into tears, and leaned her head against the cushioned
carriage, feeling quite overcome by her self-reproach and consciousness.
Their mother had died when Mollie was born, and they had been left to
fight their own battles ever since.
She was obliged to control herself, however. It would never do to
present herself to Pullet in tears. So she sat up and dried her eyes
with her handkerchief, and turned to the carriage window to let the
fresh air blow upon her face. But she had not been looking out
two minutes when her attention was attracted by something down the
street,--a bit of color,--a little tuft of scarlet feathers in a hat,
and then her eyes, wandering lower, recognized a well-remembered jacket
and a well-remembered dress, and then the next instant she uttered an
exclamation in spite of herself.
“It is Mollie!” she cried. “It is Mollie, and here is Gerald Chandos!”
For at the door of a bookseller's she was just nearing stood the
gentleman in question, holding a periodical in his hand, and evidently
awaiting an arrival.
He caught sight of Mollie almost as soon as she did herself, and
the instant he saw her he hurried toward her, and by the time Miss
MacDowlas's carriage rolled slowly up to them, in its usual stately
fashion, he was holding the small disreputable glove Mollie had just
taken out of the convenient jacket pocket, and the fair culprit herself
was listening to his eager greeting with the old, bright, uncontrollable
blushes, and the old dangerous trick of drooping brown-fringed eyelids,
and half-shy, half-wilful air. Dolly instinctively called to her almost
aloud. She could not resist the impulse.
“Mollie!” she said. “Mollie!”
But, of course, Mollie did not hear her, and the carriage passed her,
and Dolly sank back into her corner catching her breath.
“It was not a mistake,” she said; “it was true. It is worse than I
thought. Miss MacDowlas was right. It was no accident which brought them
both here. He is a cowardly scoundrel and is playing upon her ignorance.
If I had believed in him before, I should know that he is not to be
trusted now. She is walking on the edge of a precipice, and she thinks
she is safe and never dreams of its existence. Oh, Mollie! Mollie! the
world means nothing to you yet, and it is we who have to show you all
the thorns!”
She finished her errands and drove homeward as quickly as possible. She
could think of nothing but Mollie, and by the time she reached Barbrazon
Lodge her head ached with the unpleasant excitement. The servant who
opened the door met her with a piece of information. Mr. Gowan had
called to see her on some special business, and was awaiting her arrival
in the drawing-room. He had been there almost an hour.
She did not go to her room at all, but ran up-stairs to the drawing-room
quickly, feeling still more anxious. It was just possible that somebody
was ill, and Ralph Gowan had come to break the news to her because no
one else had been at liberty. With this idea uppermost, she opened the
door and advanced toward him, looking pale and troubled.
He met her half-way, and took her outstretched hand, looking troubled
himself.
“You are not very well,” he said at once. “I am sorry to see that.” And
his voice told her immediately that he had not come with good news.
She smiled faintly, but when she sat down she put her hand to her
forehead.
“Am I pale, then?” she answered. “I suppose I must be. It is nothing but
a trifle of headache, and,” with a hesitant laugh, “that I half fancied
you had come to tell me something unpleasant.”
He was silent for a moment,--so silent that she looked up at him with a
startled face.
“It _is_ something unpleasant!” she exclaimed. “You have come with ill
news, and you are afraid to begin.”
“Not so bad as that,--not afraid, but rather reluctant,” he answered.
“It is _not_ pleasant news; and but that I felt it would be wisest to
warn you at once, I would rather any one else had brought it. I have
stumbled upon a disagreeable report.”
“Report!” Dolly echoed, and her thoughts flew to Mollie again.
“Don't be alarmed,” he said. “It is only a disagreeable one because
the subject of it has managed to connect himself with some one whose
happiness we value.”
Dolly rose from her chair and stood up, turning even paler than before.
“This some one whose happiness we value is Mollie,” she said. “And the
report you have heard is about Mr. Gerald Chandos. Am I not right?”
“Yes,” he returned, “you are right. The hero of the report is Gerald
Chandos.”
“What has he been doing?” she asked, sharply. “Don't hesitate, please. I
want to know.”
He was evidently both distressed and perplexed. He took two or three
hurried steps across the room, as if to give himself a little extra time
to settle his words into the best form. But Dolly could not wait.
“Mr. Gowan,” she said, “what has that man been doing?”
He turned round and answered her.
“He has been passing himself off to your brother as an unmarried man,”
he said.
She slipped back into her chair again, and wrung her hands passionately.
“And he is married?” she demanded. “Oh! how was it you did not know
this?”
“Not one in ten of Mr. Gerald Chandos's friends know it,” he returned.
“And I am only a chance acquaintance. It is not an agreeable story to
tell, if what report says is true. Remember, it is only report as yet,
and I will not vouch for it. It is said that the marriage was the end
of a boyish folly, and that the happy couple separated by mutual consent
six months after its consummation. The woman went to California, and
Chandos has not seen her since, though he hears of her whereabouts
occasionally.”
“And you are not quite sure yet that the report is true?” said Dolly.
“Not quite sure,” he replied; “but I wish I had greater reason to doubt
it.”
Recurring mentally to the little scene she had witnessed on the street
only an hour or so previously, and remembering Mollie's blushes and
drooping eyes, and the look they had won from Mr. Gerald Chandos as he
took her half-reluctant hand in his, Dolly bit her lips hard, feeling
her blood grow hot within her. She waited just a minute to cool herself,
and then spoke.
“Mr. Gowan,” she said, “in the first place I ought to thank you.”
“Nay,” he said, “I promised to help you to care for Mollie.”
“I ought to thank you,” she repeated. “And I do. But in the second place
I am going to ask you to do something for me which may be disagreeable.”
“You may be sure,” he replied, “that I shall not hesitate.”
“Yes,” she said, “I think I am sure of that, or I should not ask you. I
am so eager about the matter, that I could not bear to waste the time.
I want you to help me. On Thursday afternoon I am going home. Can you
trace this report to its source before then, and let me know whether it
is a true or a false one?”
“I can try.”
She clasped both her gloved hands together on the small table before
her, and lifted to his such a determined young face and such steadfast
eyes, that he was quite impressed. She would rise in arms against the
world for poor, unwise Mollie, it was plain. It was not so safe a matter
to trifle in Vagabondia, it would seem,--that Gerald Chandos would find
to his cost.
“If you bring word to me that what you have heard is a truth,” she said,
“I can go to Mollie with my weapon in my hand, and I can end all at one
blow. However wilful and incredulous she may have been heretofore, she
will not attempt to resist me when I tell her that. It is a humiliating
thing to think he has insulted her by keeping his secret so far; but we
meet with such covert stings now and then in Vagabondia, and perhaps it
will prove a blessing in disguise. If we had used our authority to make
her dismiss him without having a decided reason to give her, she might
only have resented our intervention as being nothing but prejudice. As
it is, she will be frightened and angry.”
So it was agreed upon that he should take in hand the task of sifting
the affair to the bottom. His time was his own, and chance had thrown
him among men who would be likely to know the truth. As soon as he had
gained the necessary information, Dolly would hear from him, or he would
call upon her and give her all particulars.
“You have a whole day before you,--nearly two whole days, I may say,
for I shall not be likely to leave here until five or six o'clock
on Thursday,” Dolly said, when their rather lengthened interview
terminated.
“I will make the most of my time,” he replied.
Dolly stood at the window and watched him go down the walk to the gates.
“This is the something which was going to happen,” she commented.
“Having set matters straight with Grif, I suppose it is necessary, for
the maintenance of my self-control, that I should have a difficulty
about Mollie; but I think I could have retained my equilibrium without
it.”
The two days passed quietly enough up to Thursday afternoon. Whatever
Ralph Gowan had discovered, he was keeping to himself for the present.
He had not written, and he had not called. Naturally, Dolly was
impatient. She began to be very impatient indeed, as the afternoon
waned, and it became dusk. Worse still, her old restlessness came upon
her. She could not make up her mind to leave Brabazon Lodge until she
had either seen or heard from Gowan, and she was afraid that if she
lingered late Griffith would arrive before her, and would be troubled by
her non-appearance. Since the night they had met in the street she had
not seen him, and she had much to say to him. She had looked forward
anxiously to this evening, and the few quiet hours they were to spend
together in the dear old disreputable parlor at Bloomsbury Place.
They had spent so many blissful evenings in that parlor, that the very
thought of it made her heart beat happily. Nobody would be there to
interfere with them. The rest of the family would, good-naturedly,
vacate and leave them alone, and she would take her old chair by the
fire, and Grif would sit near her, and in ten minutes after they had sat
so together, they would have left all their troubles behind them, and
wandered off into a realm of tender dreams and sweet unrealities.
But, impatient as she was to be gone, Dolly could not forget Mollie's
interest. It was too near her heart to be forgotten. She must attend to
Mollie's affairs first, and then she could fly to Grif and the parlor
with an easy conscience. So she waited until five o'clock before
dressing to go out, and then, after watching at the window for a while,
she decided to go to her room and put on her hat and make all her small
preparations, so that when her visitor arrived she might be ready to
leave the house as soon as he did.
“It won't do to keep Grif waiting too long, even for Mollie's sake,” she
said. “I must consider him, too. If Mr. Gowan does not come by six or
half-past, I shall be obliged to go.”
She purposely prolonged her toilet, even though it had occupied a
greater length of time than usual in the first instance. There had
been a new acquisition in the shape of a dress to don, and one or two
coquettish aids to appearance, which were also novelties. But before six
o'clock she was quite ready, and, having nothing else to do, was reduced
to the necessity of standing before the glass and taking stock of
herself and her attire.
“It fits,” she soliloquized, curving her neck in her anxiety to obtain a
back view of herself. “It fits like a glove, and so Grif will be sure to
like it. His admiration for clothes that fit amounts to a monomania. He
will make his usual ecstatic remarks on the subject of figure, too. And
I must confess,” with modest self-satisfaction,--“I must confess that
those frills are not unbecoming. If we were only rich--and married--how
I would dress, to please him! Being possessed of a figure, one's results
are never uncertain. Figure is a weakness of mine, also. With the
avoirdupois of Miss Jolliboy, life would appear a desert. Ten thousand
per annum would not console me. And yet she wears sables and seal-skin,
and is happy. It is a singular fact, worthy of the notice of the
philosopher, that it is such women who invariably possess the sable and
seal-skin. Ah, well!” charitably, “I suppose it is a dispensation of
Providence. When they attain that size they need some compensation.”
Often in after time she remembered the complacent little touch of
vanity, and wondered how it had been possible that she could stand
there, making so thoughtless and foolish a speech when danger was so
near, and so much of sharp, passionate suffering was approaching her.
She had waited until the last minute, and finding, on consulting her
watch, that it was past six, she decided to wait no longer. She took
up her gloves from the dressing-table and drew them on; she settled
the little drooping plume in her hat and picked up her muff, and then,
giving a last glance and a saucy nod to the piquant reflection in the
glass, she opened her bedroom door to go out.
And then it was, just at this last moment, that there came a ring at the
hall-door bell,--evidently a hurried ring, and withal a ring which made
her heart beat, she knew not why.
She stood at the head of the staircase and listened. A moment later, and
the visitor was speaking to the servant who had admitted him.
“Mr. Gowan,” she heard. “Miss Crewe--wish to see her at once--at once.”
She knew by his voice that something was wrong, and she did not wait for
the up-coming of the servant. She almost flew down the staircase, and
entered the parlor an instant after him; and when he saw her he met her
with an exclamation of thankfulness.
“Thank God!” he said, “that you are ready!” He was pale with excitement,
and fairly out of breath. He did not give her time to answer him. “You
must come with me,” he said. “There is not a moment to lose. I have a
cab at the door. I have driven here at full speed. The report is true,
and I have found out that to-night Chandos leaves London. But that is
not the worst,--for God's sake, be calm, and remember how much depends
upon your courage,--he intends taking your sister with him.”
Terrible as the shock was to her, she was calm, and did remember how
much might depend upon her. She forgot Grif and the happy evening she
had promised herself; she forgot all the world but Mollie,--handsome,
lovable, innocent Mollie, who was rushing headlong and unconsciously to
misery and ruin. A great, sharp change seemed to come upon her as she
turned to Ralph Gowan. She was not the same girl who, a minute or so
before, had nodded at her pretty self in the glass; the excited blood
tingled in her veins; she was full of desperate, eager bravery,--she
could not wait a breath's space.
“Come!” she exclaimed, “I am ready. You can tell me the rest when we are
in the cab.”
She did not even know where they were going until she heard Gowan give
the driver the directions. But, as they drove through the streets, she
learned all.
In spite of his efforts, it was not until the eleventh hour that he had
succeeded in obtaining positive proof of the truth of the report, though
he had found less cause to doubt it each time he made fresh inquiries.
In the end he had been driven to the necessity of appealing to a man who
had been Chandos's confidential valet, and who, rascal though he was,
still was able to produce proofs to be relied on. Then he had been
roused to such indignation that he had driven to the fellow's lodgings
with the intention of confronting him with his impudent guilt, and there
he had made the fearful discovery that he had just left the place with
“a pretty, childish-looking girl,--tall, and with a lovely color,” as
the landlady described her; and he had known it was Mollie at once.
The good woman had given him all particulars. They had come to the house
together in a cab, and the young lady had not got out, but had remained
seated in it while her companion had given his orders to his servant
indoors. She--his housekeeper--had heard him say something about
Brussels, and, having caught a glimpse of the charming face in the
vehicle outside, she had watched it from behind the blinds, suspecting
something out of the common order of things.
“Not that he did not treat her polite and respectful enough,” she added;
“for he did and she--pretty young thing--seemed quite to expect it, and
not to be at all ashamed of herself, though she were a trifle shy and
timid. I even heard him ask her if she would rather he rode outside, and
she said she 'thought so, if he pleased,' And he bowed to her and went,
quite obedient. That was what puzzled me so; if he 'd ha' been freer, I
could have understood it.”
“It does not puzzle me!” cried Dolly, clenching her hands and fairly
panting for breath when she heard it. “He knows how innocent she is, and
he is too crafty to alarm her by his manner. Oh, cannot we make this man
drive faster?--cannot we make him drive faster?”
Gowan drew out his watch and referred to it.
“There is no danger of our losing their train,” he said. “It does not
leave the station until nearly seven, and it is not yet half-past six.
If they leave London to-night, we shall meet them; if they do not, I
think I can guess where we shall find them. Remember, you must not allow
yourself to become excited. We have only our coolness and readiness of
action to rely upon. If we lose our presence of mind, we lose all.”
He did not lose his presence of mind, at least.
Even in the midst of her distress, Dolly found time to feel grateful to
him beyond measure, and to admire his forethought. He never seemed
to hesitate for a moment. He had evidently decided upon his course
beforehand, and there was no delay. Reaching the station, he assisted
Dolly to descend from the cab and led her at once to a seat where she
could command a view of all who made their appearance upon the platform.
Then he left her and went to make inquiries from the officials. He
was not absent long. In a few minutes he returned with the necessary
information. The train was not due for twenty minutes, and as yet no
lady and gentleman answering to his description had been seen by any one
in the place.
He came to Dolly and took a seat by her, looking down at her upturned,
appealing face pityingly, but reassuringly.
“We are safe yet,” he said. “They have not arrived, and they can have
taken passage in no other train. We will watch this train leave the
station, and then we will drive at full speed to the hotel Chandos is in
the habit of visiting when he makes a flying journey. I know the place
well enough.”
The next half-hour was an anxious one to both. The train was behind
time, and consequently they were compelled to wait longer than they had
expected. A great many people crowded into the station and took tickets
for various points,--workingmen and their wives, old women with bundles,
and young ones without, comfortable people who travelled first-class and
seemed satisfied with themselves, shabbily attired little dressmakers
and milliners with bandboxes, a party of tourists, and a few nice girls;
in fact, the usual samples of people hurrying or taking it easy, losing
their temper or preserving it; but there was no Mollie. The last moment
arrived, the guards closed the carriage doors with the customary bang,
and the customary cry of “All right;” there were a few puffs and a
whistle, and then the train moved slowly out of the station. Mollie was
not on her way to Brussels yet; that was a fact to be depended upon.
Dolly rose from her seat with a sigh which was half relief.
“Now for trying the hotel,” said Gowan. “Take my arm and summon up your
spirits. In less than a quarter of an hour, I think I may say, we shall
have found our runaway, and we shall have to do our best to reduce her
romantic escapade to a commonplace level. We may even carry her back to
Bloomsbury Place before they have had time to become anxious about her.
Thank Heaven, we were so fortunate as to discover all before it was too
late!”
Bloomsbury Place! A sudden pang shot through Dolly's heart. She
recollected then for the first time that at Bloomsbury Place Griffith
was waiting for her, and that it might be a couple of hours before she
could see him and explain. She got into the cab and leaned back in one
corner, with the anxious tears forcing themselves into her eyes. It
seemed as if fate itself was against her.
“What will he think?” she exclaimed, unconsciously. “Oh, what will
he think?” Then, seeing that Gowan had heard her, she looked at him
piteously.
“I did not mean to speak aloud,” she said. “I had forgotten in my
trouble that Grif will be waiting for me all this time. He has gone to
the house to meet me, and--I am not there.”
Perhaps he felt a slight pang, too. For some time he had been slowly
awakening, to the fact that this otherwise unfortunate Grif was all in
all to her, and shut out the rest of the world completely. He had no
chance against him, and no other man would have any. Still, even in the
face of this knowledge, the evident keenness of her disappointment cut
him a little.
“You must not let that trouble you,” he said, generously. “Donne will
easily understand your absence when you tell him where you have been.
In the meantime, I have a few suggestions to make before we reach the
hotel.”
It was Mollie he was thinking of. He was wondrously tender of her in his
man's pity for her childish folly and simplicity. If possible, they must
keep her secret to themselves. If she had left no explanation behind
her, she must have given some reason for leaving the house, and if they
found her at the hotel it would not be a difficult matter to carry her
back home without exciting suspicion, and thus she would be saved the
embarrassment and comment her position would otherwise call down upon
her. Griffith might be told in confidence, but the rest of them might
be left to imagine that nothing remarkable had occurred. These were his
suggestions.
Dolly agreed to adopt them at once, it is hardly necessary to say. The
idea that it would be possible to adopt them made the case look less
formidable. She had been terribly troubled at first by the thought of
the excitement the explanation of the escapade would cause at Bloomsbury
Place. Phil would have been simply furious,--not so much against Mollie
as against Chandos. His good-natured indifference to circumstances would
not have been proof against the base betrayal of confidence involved in
the affair. And then even in the after-time, when the worst was over and
forgotten, the innumerable jokes and thoughtless sarcasms she would have
had to encounter would have been Mollie's severest punishment. When the
remembrance of her past danger had faded out of the family mind, and the
whimsical side of the matter presented itself, they would have teased
her, and Dolly felt that such a course would be far from safe. So she
caught at Ralph Gowan's plan eagerly.
Still she felt an excited thrill when the cab drew up before the door of
the hotel. Suppose they should not find her? Suppose Chandos had taken
precautions against their being followed?
But Gowan did not seem to share her misgivings, though the expression
upon his face was a decidedly disturbed one as he descended from the
vehicle.
“You must remain seated until I come back,” he said. “I shall not be
many minutes, I am sure. I am convinced they are here.” And then he
closed the cab door and left her.
She drew out her watch and sat looking at it to steady herself. Her mind
was not very clear as to how she intended to confront Mr. Gerald Chandos
and convince Mollie. The convincing of Mollie would not be difficult,
she was almost sure, but the confronting of Gerald Chandos was not a
pleasant thing to think of.
She was just turning over in her mind a stirring, scathing speech, when
the cab door opened again, and Gowan stood before her. He had not been
absent five minutes.
“It is as I said it would be,” he said. “They are here,--at least Mollie
is here. Chandos has gone out, and she is alone in the private parlor
he has engaged for her. They have evidently missed their train. They
intended to leave by the first in the morning. I have managed to give
the impression that we are expected, and so we shall be shown on to the
scene at once without any trouble.”
And so they were. A waiter met them at the entrance and led them
up-stairs without the slightest hesitation.
“It is not necessary to announce us,” said Gowan. And the man threw open
the door of No. 2 with a bow.
They crossed the threshold together without speaking, and when the
door closed behind them they turned and looked at each other with a
simultaneous but half-smothered exclamation.
It was a pretty room, bright with a delicate gay-hued carpet and thick
white rugs, numerous mirrors and upholstering of silver-gray and blue.
There was a clear-burning fire in the highly polished steel-grate,
and one of the blue and silver-gray sofas had been drawn up to it,
and there, upon this sofa, lay Mollie with her hand under her cheek,
sleeping like a baby.
They were both touched to the heart by the mere sight of her. There was
something in the perfect repose of her posture and expression that was
childish and restful. It was a difficult matter to realize that she was
sleeping on the brink of ruin and desolation. Something bright gathered
on Dolly's lashes and slipped down her cheek as she looked at her.
“Thank God, we have found her!” she said. “Just to think that she should
be sleeping like that,--as if she was at home. If she was two years old
she might wear just such a look.”
Gowan hardly liked to stand by as she went toward the sofa. The girl's
face, under the coquettish hat, seemed to grow womanly, her whole figure
seemed to soften as she knelt down upon the carpet by the couch and laid
her hand upon Mollie's shoulder, speaking to her gently.
“Mollie,” she said, “dear, waken.”
Just that, and Mollie started up with a faint cry, dazzled by the light,
and rubbing her eyes and her soft, flushed cheeks, just as she had done
the night Gowan surprised her asleep in the parlor.
“Dolly,” she cried out, when she saw who was with her,--“Dolly,” in a
half-frightened voice, “why did you come here?”
“I came to take you home,” answered Dolly, tremulously, but firmly.
“Thank God! I am not too late! Oh, Mollie, Mollie, how could you?”
Mollie sat up among her blue and gray cushions and stared at her for a
moment, as if she was not wide enough awake to realize what she meant.
But the next instant she caught sight of Ralph Gowan, and that roused
her fully, and she flushed scarlet.
“I don't know what you mean,” she said. “I don't know what you mean
by coming here in this way. And I don't know what Mr. Gowan means by
bringing you,--for I feel sure he has brought you. I am not a baby,
to be followed as if I could not take care of myself. I am going to
be married to Mr. Gerald Chandos to-morrow, and we are going on the
Continent for our wedding tour.”
She was in a high state of rebellion. It was Gowan's presence she was
resenting, not Dolly's. To tell the truth, she was rather glad to see
Dolly. She had begun to feel the loneliness of her position, and it had
half intimidated her. But the sight of Gowan roused her spirit. What
right had he to come and interfere with her, since he did not care for
her and thought she was nothing but a child? It made her feel like a
child. She turned her back to him openly as she spoke to Dolly.
“I am going to be married in the morning,” she repeated; “and we are
going to Brussels.”
Then, in her indignation against Mr. Gerald Chandos, Dolly fired a
little herself.
“And has it never occurred to you,” she said, “that it is rather a
humiliating thing this running away, as if you knew you were doing
something disgraceful? May I ask what reason Mr. Gerald Chandos gives
for asking you to submit to such an insult, for it is an insult?”
“He has very good reasons,” answered Mollie, beginning to falter all at
once, as the matter was presented to her in this new and trying light.
“He has very good reasons,--something about business and--and his
family, and he does not intend to insult me. He is very fond of me and
very proud of me, and he is going to try to make me very happy. He--he
has bought me a beautiful trousseau--” And then, seeing the two exchange
indignant yet pitying glances, she broke off suddenly and burst forth as
if she was trying to hide in anger the subtle, mysterious fear which was
beginning to creep upon her. “How dare you look at each other so!” she
cried. “How dare you look at me so! I have done nothing wrong. He says
many other people do the same thing and--and I won't be looked at so. I
shall not tell you another word. You--you look as if I was going to do
something wicked and dreadful.” And she flung herself face downward upon
the sofa cushions and broke into a passionate, excited sob.
Then Dolly could control herself no longer. She flashed out into a storm
of wrath and scorn against this cool, systematic scoundrel, who would
have wrought such harm against such simple ignorance of the world.
What had they not saved her from, poor, foolish child? She clenched her
little, gloved hand and struck it against the sofa arm, the hot color
flaming up on her cheeks and the fire lighting in her eyes.
“Mollie!” she exclaimed, “that is what is true! You are going to do
something that is dreadful to think of, though you do not think so
because you do not know the truth. And we have come to tell you the
truth and save you. That man is a villain,--he is the worst of villains.
He does not intend to marry you,--he cannot marry you, and, knowing
he cannot, he has been laying traps for months to drag you down into
a horrible pit of shame. Yes, of the bitterest grief and shame,--poor,
simple child as you are,--for I must tell you the whole dreadful truth,
though I would far rather hide it from you, if I could. There are some
wicked, wicked men in the world, Mollie, and Gerald Chandos is one of
the worst, for he has got a wife already.”
It did not seem to be Mollie who sprang up from her cushions and
confronted them with wide-opened eyes. Every bit of color had died out
of her cheeks and lips, and she turned from one to the other with a
wild, appealing look.
“It is n't true,” she insisted, desperately; but her voice was broken,
and she sobbed out her words in her fright. “It is n't true! It is n't
true! You want to frighten me.” And all at once she ran to Ralph Gowan
like a child, and caught hold of his arm with her pretty, shaking
hands. “Mr. Gowan,” she said, “you know, don't you? and you won't--you
won't--Oh, where is Aimée? I want Aimée! Aimée is n't like the rest of
you! _She_ would have made me go home without being so cruel as this.”
And the next minute she turned so white and staggered so, that Dolly ran
to her, and Gowan was obliged to take her in his arms.
“Tell her that what I have said is true,” said Dolly, crying. “She will
begin to understand then.”
And so, while he held her, panting and sobbing and clinging to him,
Gowan told her all that he had learned. He was as brief as possible and
as tender as a woman. His heart so warmed toward the pretty, lovable,
passionately frightened creature, that his voice was far from steady as
he told his story.
She did not rebel an instant longer, then. Her terror, under the shock,
rendered her only helpless and hysterical. She had so far lost control
over herself that she would have believed anything they had chosen to
tell her.
“Take me away,” she cried, whitening and shivering, all her bright,
pretty color gone, all her wilful petulance struck down at a blow. “Take
me home,--take me home to Aimée. I want to go away from here before he
comes. I want to go home and die.”
How they got her down-stairs and into the carriage, Dolly scarcely
knows. It was enough that they got her there and knew she was safe. Upon
the table in the room above they had left a note directed to Mr. Gerald
Chandos,--Dolly had directed it and Dolly had written it.
“Is there pen and ink here?” she had asked Gowan; and when he had
produced the articles, she had bent over the table and dashed a few
lines off with an unsteady yet determined hand.
“There!” she had said, when she closed the envelope. “Mr. Chandos will
go to Brussels, I think, and he will understand why he goes alone, and,
for my part, I incline to the belief that he will not trouble us again.”
And in five minutes more they were driving toward Bloomsbury Place.
But now the first excitement was over, Dolly's nerve began to fail her.
Now that Mollie was safe, she began to think of Griffith. It seemed a
cruel trick of fortune's to try his patience so sharply just at this
very point. She knew so well what effect his hours of waiting would have
upon him. But it was useless to rebel now; so she must bear it as well
as she could, and trust to the result of her explanation. Yet despite
her hope, every minute of the long drive seemed an age, and she grew
feverish and restless and wretched. What if he had not waited, and was
not there to listen to what she had to say? Then there would be all the
old trouble to face again,--perhaps something worse.
“It is nine o'clock,” she said, desperately, as they passed a lighted
church tower. “It is nine o'clock.” And she leaned back in her corner
again, with her heart beating strongly. Her disappointment was so keen
that she could have burst into a passion of tears. Her happy evening
was gone, and her dream of simple pleasure had fled with its sacrificed
hours. She could not help remembering this, and being quite conquered by
the thought, even though Mollie was safe.
They had settled what to do beforehand. At the corner of the street
Gowan was to leave them, and the two girls were to go in together,
Mollie making her way at once to her room upon pretext of headache. A
night's rest would restore her self-control, and by the next morning she
would be calm enough to face the rest, and so her wild escapade would
end without risk of comment if she was sufficiently discreet to keep her
own counsel. At present she was too thoroughly upset and frightened even
to feel humiliation.
“Nearly half-past nine,” said Gowan, as he assisted them to descend to
the pavement at their journey's end.
The light from an adjacent lamp showed him that the face under Dolly's
hat was very pale and excited, and her eyes were shining and large with
repressed tears as she gave him her hand.
“I cannot find words to thank you just yet,” she said, low and
hurriedly. “I wish I could; but--you know what you have helped me to
save Mollie from to-night, and so you know what my gratitude must be.
The next time I see you, perhaps, I shall be able to say what I wish,
but now I can only say goodnight, and--oh, God bless you!” And the
little hand fairly wrung his.
Mollie shook hands with him, trembling and almost reluctantly. She was
pale, too, and her head drooped as if it would nevermore regain the old
trick of wilful, regal carriage.
“You have been very kind to take so much trouble,” she said. “You were
kinder than I deserved,--both of you.”
“Now,” said Dolly, when he sprang into the cab, and they turned away
together,--“now for getting into the house as quietly as possible. No,”
trying to speak cheerily, and as if their position was no great matter,
“you must n't tremble, Mollie, and you mustn't cry. It is all over now,
and everything is as commonplace and easy to manage as can be. You have
been out, and have got the headache, and are going to bed. That is
all. All the rest we must forget. Nothing but a headache, Mollie, and
a headache is not much, so we won't fret about it. If it had been a
heartache, and sin and shame and sorrow--but it isn't. But, Mollie,”
they had already reached the house then, and stood upon the steps, and
she turned to the girl and put a hand on each of her shoulders, speaking
tremulously, “when you go up-stairs, kneel down by your bedside and say
your prayers, and thank God that it is n't,--thank God that it is n't,
with all your heart and soul.” And she kissed her cheek softly just as
they heard Aimée coming down the hall to open the door.
“Dolly!” she exclaimed when she saw them, “where have you been? Griffith
has been here since five, and now he is out looking for you. I had given
you up entirely, but he would not. He fancied you had been delayed by
something.”
“I have been delayed by something,” said Dolly, her heart failing her
again. “And here is Mollie, with the headache. You had better go to bed,
Mollie. How long is it since Grif left the house?”
“Scarcely ten minutes,” was the answer. “It is a wonder you did not meet
him. Oh, Dolly!” ominously, “how unlucky you are!”
Dolly quite choked in her effort to be decently composed in manner.
“I _am_ unlucky,” she said; and without saying more, she made her way
into the parlor.
She took her hat off there and tossed it on the sofa, utterly regardless
of consequences, and then dropped into her chair and looked round the
room. It did not look as she had pictured it earlier in the day. Its
cheerfulness was gone, and it looked simply desolate. The fire had sunk
low in the grate, and the hearth was strewn with dead ashes;--somehow or
other, everything seemed chilled and comfortless. She was too late for
the brightness and warmth,--a few hours before it had been bright and
warm, and Grif had been there waiting for her. Where was he now? She
dropped her face on the arm of her chair with a sob of disappointed
feeling and foreboding. What if he had seen them leave Ralph Gowan, and
had gone home!
“It's too bad!” she cried. “It is cruel! I can't bear it! Oh, Grif, _do_
come!” And her tears fell thick and fast.
Ten minutes later she started up with a little cry of joy and relief.
That was his footstep upon the pavement, and before he had time to ring
she was at the door. She could scarcely speak to him in her excitement.
“Oh, Grif!” she said; “Grif--darling!”
But he did not offer to touch her, and strode past her outstretched
hands.
“Come into this room with me,” he said, hoarsely; and the simple sound
of his voice struck her to the heart like a blow.
She followed him, trembling, and when they stood in the light, and she
saw his deathly, passion-wrung face, her hand crept up to her side and
pressed against it.
He had a package in his hand,--a package of letters,--and he laid them
down on the table.
“I have been home for these,” he said. “Your letters,--I have brought
them back to you.”
“Grif!” she cried out.
He waved her back.
“No,” he said, “never mind that. It is too late for that now, that is
all over. Good God! all over!” and he panted for breath. “I have been in
this room waiting for you,” he struggled on, “since five o'clock. I came
with my heart full to the brim. I have dreamt about what this evening
was to be to us every night for a week. I was ready to kneel and kiss
your feet. I waited hour after hour. I was ready to pray--yes, to
_pray_, like a fool--that I might hold you in my arms before the night
ended. Not half an hour ago I went out to see if you were coming. And
you were coming. At the corner of the street you were bidding good-night
to--to Ralph Gowan--”
“Listen!” she burst forth. “Mollie was with me--
“Ralph Gowan was with you,” he answered her; “it does not matter who
else was there. You had spent those hours in which I wanted you with
him. That was enough,--nothing can alter that.” And then all at once he
came and stood near her, and looked down at her with such anguish in his
eyes that she could have shrieked aloud. “It was a poor trick to play,
Dolly,” he said; “so poor a one, that it was scarcely like you. Your
coquetries had always a fairer look. The commonest jilt might have
done such a thing as that, and almost have done it better. It is an old
trick, too, this playing the poor fool against the rich one. The only
merit of your play has been that you have kept it up so long.”
He was almost mad, but he might have seen that he was trying her too
far, and that she would break down all at once. The long strain of
the whole evening; his strange, unnatural mood; her struggle against
wretchedness--all were too much for her to bear. She tried to speak,
and, failing, fought for strength, sobbed thrice, a terrible, hysterical
sob, like a child's, and then turned white and shivered, without
uttering a word.
“Yes,” he said, “a long time, Dolly”--but his sentence was never ended,
for that instant she went down as if she had been shot, and lay near his
feet quivering for a second, and then lying still.
He was not stayed even then. He bent down and lifted her in his arms and
carried her to the sofa, pale himself, but not relenting. He seemed to
have lived past the time when the pretty, helpless figure, in all its
simple finery, would have stirred him to such ecstasy of pain. He was
mad enough to have believed even her helplessness a lie, only that the
cruel, ivory pallor was so real. He did not even stoop to kiss her when
he turned away. But all the treasure of faith and truth and love had
died out of his face, the veriest dullard could have seen; his very
youth had dropped away from him, and he left the old, innocent dreams
behind, with something like self-scorn.
“Good-by,” he said; “we have lost a great deal, Dolly--or I have lost
it, I might say. And even you--I believe it pleased even you until
better fortune came; so, perhaps, you have lost something, too.”
Then he went to the bell and touched it, and, having done so, strode out
into the narrow hall, opened the front door and was gone; and when,
a few minutes later, Aimée came running down to answer the strange
summons, she found only the silent room, Dolly's white, piteous face
upon the sofa-cushion, and the great package of those old, sweet,
foolish letters upon the table.