THE postman paid frequent visits to Bloomsbury Place during these summer
weeks. At first Dolly wrote often herself, but later it seemed to
fall to Miss MacDowlas to answer Aimée's weekly letters and Mollie's
fortnightly ones. And that lady was a faithful correspondent, and did
her duty as readily as was possible, giving all the news, and recording
all Dolly's messages, and issuing regular bulletins on the subject of
her health. “Your sister,” she sometimes wrote, “is not so well, and I
have persuaded her to allow me to be her amanuensis.” Or, “Your sister
is tired after a rather long drive, and I have persuaded her to
rest while I write at her dictation.” Or sometimes, “Dolly is rather
stronger, and is in excellent spirits, but I do not wish her to exert
herself at present.” But at length a new element crept into these
letters. The cheerful tone gave way to a more dubious one; Dolly's
whimsical messages were fewer and farther between, and sometimes Miss
MacDowlas seemed to be on the verge of hinting that her condition was
a weaker and more precarious one than even she herself had at first
feared.
Ralph Gowan, on making his friendly calls, and hearing this, was both
anxious and puzzled. In a very short time after his return he had
awakened to a recognition of some mysterious shadow upon the household.
Vagabondia had lost its spirits. Mrs. Phil and her husband were
almost thoughtful; Tod disported himself unregarded and unadmired,
comparatively speaking; Mollie seemed half frightened by the aspect
affairs were wearing; and Aimee's wise, round face had an older look.
And then these letters! Dolly “trying Switzerland” for her health, Dolly
mysteriously ill and far away from home,--too weak sometimes to write.
Dolly, who had never seemed to have a weakness; who had entered the
lists against even Lady Augusta, and had come off victorious; who
had been mock-worldly, and coquettish, and daring; who had made open
onslaught upon eligible Philistines; who had angled prettily and with
sinful success for ineligible Bohemians! What did it mean? And where was
Donne? Certainly he was never to be seen at Bloomsbury Place or in its
vicinity in these days.
But, deeply interested as he was, Gowan was not the man to ask
questions; so he could only wait until chance brought the truth to
light.
He came to the house upon one occasion and found Aimée crying quietly
over one of Miss MacDowlas's letters in the parlor, and in his sympathy
he felt compelled to speak openly to her.
Then Aimée, heavy of heart and full of despairing grief, handed him the
letter to read.
“I have known it would be so--from the first,” she sobbed. “We are going
to lose her. Perhaps she will not live to come home again.”
“You mean Dolly?” he said.
“Yes,” hysterically. “Miss MacDowlas says--” But she could get no
further.
This was what Miss MacDowlas said:--
“I cannot think it would be right to hide from you that your sister is
very ill, though she does not complain, and persists in treating her
increasing weakness lightly. Indeed, I am sure that she herself does
not comprehend her danger. I am inclined to believe that it has not
yet occurred to her that she is in danger at all. She protests that she
cannot be ill so long as she does not suffer; but I, who have watched
her day by day, can see only too plainly where the danger lies. And so I
think it best to warn you to be prepared to come to us at once if at any
time I should send for you hurriedly.”
“Prepared to go to them!” commented Aimée. “What does that mean? What
can it mean but that our own Dolly is dying, and may slip out of the
world away from us at any moment? Oh, Grif! Grif! what have you done?”
Gowan closed the letter.
“Miss Aimée,” he said, “where _is_ Donne?”
Aimée fairly wrung her hands.
“I don't know,” she quite wailed. “If I only did--if I only knew where I
could find him!”
“You don't know!” exclaimed Gowan. “And Dolly dying in Switzerland!”
“That is it,” she returned. “That is what it all means. If any of us
knew--or if Dolly knew, she would not be dying in Switzerland. It is
because she does not know, that she is dying. She has never seen him
since the night you brought Mollie home. And--and she cannot live
without him.”
The whole story was told in very few words after this; and Gowan,
listening, began to understand what the cloud upon the house had meant.
He suffered some sharp enough pangs through the discovery, too. The last
frail cords that had bound him to hope snapped as Aimée poured out her
sorrows. He had never been very sanguine of success, but even after
hoping against hope, his tender fancy for Dolly Crewe had died a very
lingering death; indeed, it was not quite dead yet, but he was beginning
to comprehend this old love story more fully, and he had found himself
forced to do his rival greater justice. He could not see his virtues as
the rest saw them, of course, but he was generous enough to pity him,
and see that his lot had been a terribly hard one.
“There is only one thing to be done,” he said, when Aimée had finished
speaking. “We must find him.”
“Find him! We cannot find him.”
“That remains to be proved,” he answered. “Have you been to his
lodgings?”
“Yes,” mournfully. “And even to the office! He left his lodgings that
very night, paid his bills, and drove away in a cab with his trunk.
Poor Grif! It was n't a very big trunk. He went to the office the next
morning, and told Mr. Flynn he was going to leave London, and one of
the clerks told Phil there was a 'row' between them. Mr. Flynn was angry
because he had not given due notice of his intention. That is all we
know.”
“And you have not the slightest clew beyond this?”
“Not the slightest. He spent all his spare time with Dolly, you know;
so there is not even any place of resort, or club, or anything, where we
might go to make inquiries about him.”
Gowan's countenance fell. He felt the girl's distress keenly, apart from
his own pain.
“The whole affair seems very much against us,” he said; “but he may--I
say he _may_ be in London still. I am inclined to believe he is myself.
When the first passion of excitement was over, he would find himself
weaker than he fancied he was. It would not be so easy to cut himself
off from the old life altogether. He would long so inexpressibly to
see Dolly again that he could not tear himself away. I think we may
be assured that even if he is not in London, at least he has not left
England.”
“That was what I have been afraid of,” said Aimée, “that he might have
left England altogether.”
“I cannot think he has,” Gowan returned.
They were both silent for a moment. Aimée sat twisting Miss MacDowlas's
letter in her fingers, fresh tears gathering in her eyes.
“It is all the harder to bear,” she said next, “because Dolly has always
seemed so much of a _reality_ to us. If she had been a pale, ethereal
sort of girl, it might not seem such a shock; but she never was. She
even used to say she could not bear those frail, ethereal people in
books, who were always dying and saying touching things just at the
proper time, and who knew exactly when to call up their agonized friends
to their bedside to see how pathetically and decorously they made their
exit. Oh, my poor darling! To think that she should be fading away and
dying just in the same way! I cannot make it seem real. I cannot think
of her without her color, and her jokes, and her bits of acting, and her
little vanities. She will not be our Dolly at all if they have left her.
There is a dress of hers up-stairs now,--a dress she couldn't bear.
And I remember so well how she lost her temper when she was making it,
because it would n't fit. And when I went into the parlor she was crying
over it, and Grif was trying so hard to console her that at last
she laughed. I can see her now, with the tears in her eyes, looking
half-vexed and half-comforted. And Tod, too,--how fond she was of Tod,
and how proud of him! Ah, Tod,” in a fresh burst, “when you grow up,
the daisies may have been growing for many a year over poor little Aunt
Dolly, and you will have forgotten her quite.”
“You must not look at the matter in that desponding way,” said Gowan,
quite unsteadily. “We must hope for the best, and do what we can. You
may rely upon me to exert myself to the utmost. If we succeed in
finding Donne I am sure that he will do the rest. Perhaps, next summer
Vagabondia will be as bright as ever,--nay, even brighter than it has
been before.”
All his sympathies were enlisted, and, hopeless as the task seemed, he
had determined to make strenuous efforts to trace this lost lover. Men
had concealed themselves from their friends, in the world of London,
often before, and this, he felt sure, Griffith Donne was doing; and
since this poor little impassioned, much-tried Dolly was dying in spite
of herself for Griffith Donne's sake, and seemed only to be saved by his
presence, he must even set himself the task of bringing him to light and
clearing up this miserable misunderstanding. Having been Dolly Crewe's
lover, he was still generous enough to wish to prove himself her friend;
yes, and even her luckier lover's friend, though he winced a trifle at
the thought. Accordingly, he left the house that night with his mind
full of half-formed plans, both feasible and otherwise.
During the remainder of that week he did not call at Bloomsbury Place
again, but at the beginning of the next he made his appearance, bringing
with him a piece of news which excited Aimee terribly.
“I know I shall startle you,” he said, the moment they were alone
together, “but you can scarcely be more startled than I was myself. I
have been on the lookout constantly, but I did not expect to be rewarded
by success so soon. Indeed, as it is, it has been entirely a matter of
chance. It is as I felt sure it would be. Donne is in London still.
I know that much, though that is all I have learned as yet. Late last
night I caught a glimpse--only a glimpse--of him hurrying through a
by-street. I almost fancied he had seen me and was determined to get out
of the way.”
“The pretty English girl,” said the guests at the inn, “comes down no
longer to the _table d'hôte!_” “The pretty English girl,” remarked the
wiseacres, “does not even drive out on these days, and the doctor calls
every morning to see her.”
“And sometimes,” added one of the wisest, “again in the evening.”
“Consumption,” observed another.
“Plainly consumption,” nodding significantly. “These English frauleins
are so often consumptive,” commented a third. “It is astonishing to
remark how many come to 'try Switzerland,' as they say.”
“And die?”
“And die,--as this one will.”
“Poor little thing!” with a sigh and a pitying shrug of the shoulders.
And in the meantime up-stairs the basket chair had been taken away from
the window, and a large-cushioned, chintz-covered couch had been pushed
into its place, and Dolly lay upon it. But luxurious as her couch was,
and balmy as the air was, coming through the widely opened window, she
did not find much rest. The fact was, she was past rest by this time,
she was too weak to rest. The hot days tried her, and her sleepless
nights undermined even her last feeble relic of strength. Sometimes
during the day she felt that she could not lie propped up on the pillows
a moment longer; but when she tried to stand or sit up she was glad
to drop back again into the old place. She lost her breath fearfully
soon,--the least exertion left her panting.
“If I had a cough,” she said once to Miss MacDowlas, “I could understand
that I was ill--or if I suffered any actual pain, but I don't, and even
the doctor admits that my lungs are safe enough. What is it that he says
about me? Let me see. Ah, this is it: that I am 'below par--fearfully
below par,' as if I was gold, or notes, or bonds, or something. My ideas
on the subject of the money market are indefinite, you see. Ah, well; I
wonder when I shall be 'above par'!”
She never spoke of her ailments in any other strain. Even as she lay
on her couch, too prostrate to either read or work, she made audacious
satirical speeches, and told Miss MacDowlas stories of Vagabondia, just
as she used to tell them to Grif himself, only that in these days she
could not get up to flourish illustratively; and often after lying for
an hour or so in a dead, heavy, exhausting day-sleep, she opened her
eyes at last, to jest about her faithful discharge of her duties as
companion. Only she herself knew of the fierce battles she so often
fought in secret, when her sore, aching heart cried out so loud for Grif
and would not--_would_ not be comforted.
She saw Phemie frequently. The much-abused professor had proved himself
a faithful friend to them. He had never been quite able to forget the
little English governess, who had so won upon him in the past, even
though this same young lady, in her anxiety to set Lady Augusta at
defiance, had treated him somewhat cavalierly. Indeed, hearing that she
was ill, he was so touched as to be quite overwhelmed with grief.
He gained Euphemia frequent leaves of absence, and sent messages of
condolence and bouquets,--huge bunches of flowers which made Dolly laugh
even while they pleased her. There was always a bouquet, stiff in form
and gigantic in proportions, when Phemie came.
At first Phemie caught the contagion of Dolly's own spirit and
hopefulness, and was sustained by it in spite of appearances; but its
influence died out at the end of a few weeks, and even she was not to be
deceived. An awful fear began to force itself upon her,--a fear doubly
awful to poor, susceptible Phemie. Dolly was getting no better; she was
even getting worse every day; she could not sit up; she was thinner and
larger-eyed than ever. Was something going to happen? And at the mere
thought of that possible something she would lose her breath and sit
looking at Dolly, silent, wondering, and awe-stricken. She began to
ponder over this something, as she tried to learn her lessons; she
thought of it as she went to bed and she dreamed of it in the night.
Sometimes when she came in unexpectedly and found Dolly in one of those
prostrate sleeps, she was so frightened that she could have cried out
aloud.
She came in so one evening at twilight,--the professor had brought her
himself and had promised to escort her home,--and she found Dolly in one
of these sleeps. So, treading lightly, she put the bouquet in water, and
then drew a low chair to the girl's side and sat down to watch and wait
until she should awaken. Miss MacDowlas was in her own room writing
to Aimée; so the place seemed very quiet, and it was its quietness,
perhaps, which so stirred Phemie to sorrowful thoughts and fear.
Upon her brightly flowered chintz cushions Dolly lay like the shadow
of her former self. The once soft, round outlines of her face had
grown clear and sharp-cut, the delicate chin had lost its dimple, the
transparent skin upon the temples showed a tracery of blue veins, the
closed eyelids had a strange whiteness and lay upon her eyes heavily.
She did not move,--she seemed scarcely to breathe. Phemie caught her own
breath and held it, lest it should break from her in a sob of grief and
terror.
This something awful _was_ going to happen! She could not recover
herself even when Dolly wakened and began to talk to her. She could not
think of anything but her own anguish and pity for her friend. She could
not talk and was so silent, indeed, that Dolly became silent too; and
so, as the dusk fell upon them, they sat together in a novel quiet,
listening to a band of strolling musicians, who were playing somewhere
in the distance, and the sound of whose instruments floated to them,
softened and made plaintive by the evening air.
At last Dolly broke the silence.
“You are very quiet, Phemie,” she said. “Are you going to sleep?”
“No,” faltered Phemie, drawing closer to her. “I am thinking.”
“Thinking. What about?”
“About you. Dolly, do you--are you very ill--worse than you were?”
“Very ill!” repeated Dolly, slowly, as if in wonder. “Worse than I was!
Why do you ask?”
Then Phemie lost self-control altogether. She left her seat and fell
down by the couch, bursting into tears.
“You are so altered,” she said; “and you alter so much every week. I
cried over your poor, thin little hands when first I came to see you,
but now your wrist looks as if it would snap in two. Oh, Dolly, darling,
if--if you should die!”
Was it quite a new thought, or was it because it had never come home to
her in such a form before, this thought of Death? She started as if she
had been stung.
“If I should die!” she echoed. “_Die!_”
“Phemie, my dear,” said Miss MacDowlas, opening the door, “the professor
is waiting down-stairs.”
And so, having let her sorrow get the better of her, Phemie had no time
to stay to see if her indiscretion had done harm. If she did not go
now, she might not be allowed fresh grace; and so she was fain to tear
herself away.
“I ought n't to have said it!” she bewailed, as she kissed Dolly again
and again. “Please forget it; oh, do, please, forget it! I did not mean
it, indeed! And now I shall be so frightened and unhappy!”
“Phemie,” said Dolly, quietly, “you have not frightened _me_; so you
haven't the least need to trouble yourself, my dear.”
But she was not exactly sorry to be left alone, and when she was alone
her thoughts wandered back to that first evening Phemie had called,--the
evening she had gone to the glass to look at her changed face. She had
sat in the basket-chair then,--she lay back upon her cushions now, and
a crowd of new thoughts came trooping through her mind. The soft air was
scented and balmy; the twilight sky was a dome of purple, jewel-hung;
people's voices came murmuring from the gardens below; the far-off music
floated to her through the window.
“If I should _die!_” she said, in a wondering whisper,--“I, Dolly Crewe!
How strange it sounds! Have I never thought that I could die before, or
is it strange because now it is so real and near? When I used to talk
about death to Grif, it always seemed so far away from both of us; it
seemed to me as if I was not good enough or unreal enough to be near
to Death,--great, solemn Death itself. Why, I could look at myself, and
wonder at the thought of how much I shall see and know if I should die.
Grif, how much I should have to tell you, dear,--only that people are
always afraid of spirits, and perhaps you would be afraid, too,--even of
me! What would they say at home? Dear, old, broken-hearted fellow, what
would _you_ say, if I should die?”
She could not help thinking about those at home; about Aimée and Mollie
and Phil and Toinette, sitting together in the dear old littered room at
Bloomsbury Place,--the dear old untidy room, where she had sat with Grif
so often! How would they all bear it when the letter came to tell them
she was gone, and would never be with them and share their pleasures and
troubles again! And then, strangely enough, she began to picture herself
as she would look; perhaps, laid out in this very room, a dimly outlined
figure, under a white sheet,--not her old self, but a solemn, wondrous
marble form, before whose motionless, mysterious presence they would
feel awed.
“And they would turn down the white covering and look at me,” she found
herself saying. “And they would wonder at me, and feel that I was far
away. Oh, how they would wonder at me! And, at the very last, before
they hid my face forever under the coffin-lid, they would all kiss me
in that tender, solemn way,--all but Grif, who loved me best; and Grif
would not be there!”
And the piteous rain of heavy tears that rolled down her cheeks, and
fell upon her pillow, was not for herself,--not for her own pain and
weariness and anguish,--not' for the white, worn face, that would be
shut beneath the coffin-lid, but for Grif,--for Grif,--for Grif, who,
coming back some day to learn the truth, might hear that she had died!