DOLLY'S DELIVERANCE.
About a week after the dinner recorded in the last chapter, Mark
repaired to the house in Kensington Park Gardens to call as in duty
bound, though, as he had not been able to find out on what afternoon
he would be sure of finding Mrs. Langton at home, he was obliged to
leave this to chance. He was admitted, however--not by the stately
Champion, but by Colin, who had seen him from the window and hastened
to intercept him.
'Mabel's at home, somewhere,' he said, 'but will you come in and speak
to Dolly first? She's crying awfully about something, and she won't
tell me what. Perhaps she'd tell you. And do come, sir, please; it's
no fun when she's like that, and she's always doing it now!' For Colin
had an unlimited belief, founded as he thought on experience, in the
persuasive powers of his former master.
Mark had his doubts as to the strict propriety of acceding to this
request--at all events until it had been sanctioned by some higher
authority than Colin--but then he remembered Mabel's anxiety on the
night of the dinner; if he could only set this child's mind at ease,
would not that excuse any breach of conventionality--would it not win
a word of gratitude from her sister? He could surely take a little
risk and trouble for such a reward as that; and so, with his usual
easy confidence, he accepted a task which was to cost him dear enough.
'You'd better leave me to manage this, young man,' he said at the
door. 'Run off to your sister Mabel and explain things, tell her where
I am and why, you know.' And he went into the library alone. Dolly was
crouching there in an arm-chair, worn out by sobbing and the weight of
a terror she dared not speak of, which had broken her down at last.
Mark, who was good-natured enough in his careless way, was touched by
the utter abandonment of her grief; for the first time he began to
think it must be something graver than a mere childish trouble, and,
apart from all personal motives, longed sincerely to do something, if
he could, to restore Dolly to her old childish self. He forgot
everything but that, and the unselfish sympathy he felt gave him a
tact and gentleness with which few who knew him best would have
credited him. Gradually, for at first she would say nothing, and
turned away in lonely hopelessness, he got her to confess that she was
very unhappy; that she had done something which she must never, never
tell to anybody.
Then she started up with a flushed face and implored him to go away
and leave her. '_Don't_ make me tell you!' she begged piteously. 'Oh,
I know you mean to be kind, I _do_ like you now--only I can't tell
you, really. Please, _please_ go away--I'm so afraid of telling you.'
'But why?' said Mark. 'I'm not very good myself, Dolly--you need not
be afraid of me.'
'It isn't that,' said Dolly, with a shudder; 'but _he_ said if I told
anyone they would have to send me to prison.'
'Who dared to tell you a wicked lie like that?' said Mark indignantly,
all the manhood in him roused by the stupid cruelty of it. 'It wasn't
Colin, was it, Dolly?'
'No, not Colin; it was Harold--Harold Caffyn. Oh, Mr. Ashburn,' she
said, with a sudden gleam of hope, 'wasn't it _true_? He said papa was
a lawyer, and would have to help the law to punish me----'
'The infernal scoundrel!' muttered Mark to himself, but he saw that he
was getting to the bottom of the mystery at last. 'So he told you
that, did he?' he continued; 'did he say it to tease you, Dolly?'
'I don't know. He often used to tease, but never like that before, and
I _did_ do it--only I never never meant it.'
'Now listen to me, Dolly,' said Mark. 'If all you are afraid of is
being sent to prison, you needn't think any more about it. You can
trust me, can't you? You know I wouldn't deceive you. Well, I tell you
that you can't have done anything that you would be sent to prison
for--that's all nonsense. Do you understand? Harold Caffyn said that
to frighten you. No one in the world would ever dream of sending you
to prison, whatever you'd done. Are you satisfied now?'
Rather to Mark's embarrassment, she threw her arms round his neck in a
fit of half-hysterical joy and relief. 'Tell me again,' she cried;
'you're _sure_ it's true--they can't send me to prison? Oh, I don't
care now. I am so glad you came--so glad. I _will_ tell you all about
it now. I want to!'
But some instinct kept Mark from hearing this confession; he had
overcome the main difficulty--the rest was better left in more
delicate hands than his, he thought. So he said, 'Never mind about
telling me, Dolly; I'm sure it wasn't anything very bad. But suppose
you go and find Mabel, and tell her; then you'll be quite happy
again.'
'Will _you_ come too?' asked Dolly, whose heart was now completely
won.
So Mark and she went hand-in-hand to the little boudoir at the back of
the house where they had had their first talk about fairies, and found
Mabel in her favourite chair by the window; she looked round with a
sudden increase of colour as she saw Mark.
'I mustn't stay,' he said, after shaking hands. 'I ought not to come
at all, I'm afraid, but I've brought a young lady who has a most
tremendous secret to confess, which she's been making herself, and you
too, unhappy about all this time. She has come to find out if it's
really anything so very awful after all.'
And he left them together. It was hard to go away after seeing so
little of Mabel, but it was a sacrifice she was capable of
appreciating.