CHAPTER IX. ~ IN WHICH WE ARE UNORTHODOX.
“SOMETHING,” announced Phil, painting away industriously at hispicture,--“something is up with Grif. Can any of you explain what itis?”
Mollie, resting her elbows on the window-ledge, turned her head overher shoulder; ‘Toinette, tying Tod’s sleeves with red ribbon, lookedup; Aimée went on with her sewing, the two little straight lines makingthemselves visible on her forehead between her eyebrows. The fact ofsomething being “up” with any one of their circle was enough to create awondering interest.
“There is no denying,” Phil proceeded, “that he is changed somehow orother. He is not the same fellow that he was a few months ago,--beforeDolly went away.”
“It is Dolly he is bothering about,” said Mollie, concisely.
Then Aimée was roused.
“I wish they were married,” she said. “I wish they were marriedand--safe!”
“Safe!” put in Mrs. Phil. “That is a queer thing to say. They are not inany danger, let us devoutly hope.”
The two wrinkles deepened, and the wise one sighed.
“I hope not,” she answered, bending her small, round, anxious face overher sewing, and attacking it vigorously.
“They never struck me, you know,” returned Mrs. Phil, “as being aparticularly dangerous couple, though now I think of it I do rememberthat it has once or twice occurred to me that Griffith has been ratherstupid lately.”
“It has occurred to me,” remarked Phil, dryly, “that he has taken a mostunaccountable dislike to Gowan.”
Mollie turned round to her window again.
“Not to put it too strongly,” continued the head of the family, “hehates him like the deuce.”
And he was not far wrong in making the assertion. The time had beencoming for some time when the course of this unimposing story of truelove was no longer to run smooth, and in these days Griffith was in adangerous frame of mind. Now and then he heard of Gowan dropping in tospend a few hours at Brabazon Lodge, and now and then he heard of hisgood fortune in having found in Miss MacDowlas a positive champion. Hewas even a favorite with her, just as he was a favorite with many otherpeople. Griffith did not visit Brabazon Lodge himself, he had giventhat up long ago, indeed had only once paid his respects to his relativesince her arrival in London. That one visit, short and ceremonious as itwas, had been enough for him. Like many estimable ladies, Miss MacDowlashad prejudices of her own which were hard to remove, and appearances hadbeen against her nephew.
“If he is living a respectable life, and so engaged in a respectableprofession, my dear,” commented Dolly’s proprietress, in one of herafter conversations on the subject, “why does he look shabby and out atelbows? It is my opinion that he is a very disreputable young man.”
“She thinks,” wrote Dolly to the victim, “that you waste your substancein riotous living.” And it was such an exquisite satire on the truestate of affairs, that even Griffith forgot his woes for the moment, andlaughed when he read the letter.
Dolly herself was not prone to complain of Miss MacDowlas. She was notso bad as she looked, after all. She was obstinate and rigid enoughon some points, but she had her fairer side, and Dolly found it. In afashion of her own Miss MacDowlas was rather fond of her companion.A girl who was shrewd, industrious, and often amusing, was not to bedespised in her opinion; so she showed her fair young handmaiden acertain amount of respect. She had engaged companions before, whobeing entertaining were not trustworthy, or being trustworthy wereinsufferably dull. She could trust Dolly with the most onerous of herdomestic or social charges, she found, and there was no fear of hersmall change disappearing or her visitors being bored. So the positionof that “young person” became an assured and decently comfortable one.
But, day by day, Griffith was drifting nearer and nearer the old shoalsof difficulty. He rasped himself with miserable imaginings, and wasoften unjust even toward Dolly. Hers was the brighter side of thematter, he told himself.
She was sure to find friends,--she always did, these people would makea sort of favorite of her, and she would be pleased because she wasso popular among them. He could not bear the thought of her ephemeralhappiness over trifles sometimes. He even fell so low as that athis worst moments, though to his credit, be it spoken, he was alwaysthoroughly ashamed of himself afterward. There were times, too, whenhe half resented her little jokes at their poverty, and answered thembitterly when he wrote his replies to her letters. His chief consolationhe found in Aimée, and the sage of the family found her hands fullerthan ever. Quiet little body as she was, she was far-sighted enough tosee danger in the distance, and surely she did her best to alter itscourse.
“If you are not cooler,” she would say, “you will work yourself intosuch a fever of unhappiness, that you will be doing something you willregret.”
“That is what I am afraid of,” he would sometimes burst forth; “but youmust admit, Aimée, that it is a pretty hard case.”
“Yes,” confessed the young oracle, “I will admit that, but beingunreasonable won’t make it any easier.”
And then the fine little lines would show themselves, and she would setherself industriously to the task of administering comfort and practicaladvice, and she never failed to cheer him a little, however temporarily.
And she did not fail Dolly, either. Sage axioms and praiseworthy counselreached Brabazon Lodge in divers small envelopes, addressed to MissCrewe, and invariably beginning, “My dearest Dolly;” and more than oncedifficulty had been averted, and Dolly’s heart warmed again toward herlover, when she had been half inclined to rebel and exhibit some slightsharpness of temper. Only a few days after the conversation with whichthe present chapter opens occurred, one of these modestly powerfulmissives was forwarded, and that evening Griffith met with an agreeablesurprise. Chance had taken him into the vicinity of Miss MacDowlas’sestablishment, and as he walked down the deserted road in a somewhatgloomy frame of mind, he became conscious suddenly of the sound ofsmall, light feet, running rapidly down the footpath behind him.
“Griffith!” cried a clear, softly pitched voice, “Griffith, wait forme.”
And, turning, he saw in the dusk of the winter day a little figurealmost flying toward him, and in a few seconds more Dolly was standingby him, laughing and panting, and holding to his arm with both hands.
“I thought I should never catch you,” she said. “You never walked sofast in your life, I believe, you stupid old fellow. I could n’t callout loud, though it is a quiet place, and so I had to begin to run.Goodness! what _would_ Lady Augusta have said if she had seen me flyingafter you!”
And then, stopping all at once, she looked up at him with a wickedlittle air of saucy daring.
“Don’t you want to kiss me?” she said. “You may, if you will endeavor toeffect it with despatch before somebody comes.”
She was obliged to resign herself to her fate then. For nearly twominutes she found herself rendered almost invisible, and neither of themspoke. Then half released, she lifted her face to look at him, andthere were tears on her eyelashes, and in her voice, too, though she wastrying very hard to smile.
“Poor old fellow,” she half whispered. “Has it seemed long since youkissed me last?”
He caught her to his breast again in his old, impetuous fashion.
“Long!” he groaned. “It has seemed so long that there have been timeswhen it has almost driven me mad. O Dolly! Dolly!”
She let him crush her in his arms and kiss her again, and she nestledagainst his shoulder for a minute, and, putting her warm little glovedhand up to his face, gave it a tiny, loving squeeze. But of course thatcould not last long. Miss Macdowlas’s companion might be kissed in thedusk two or three times, but, genteelly sequestered as was the roadleading to Brabazon Lodge, some stray footman or housemaid might appearon the scene, from some of the neighboring establishments, at anymoment, so she was obliged to draw herself away at last.
“There!” she said, “you must let me take your
arm and walk on now, andyou must tell me all about things. I have a few minutes to spare, and Ihave _so_ wanted you,” heaving a weary little sigh, and holding his armvery tightly indeed.
“Dolly,” he asked, abruptly, “are you sure of that?”
The other small hand clasped itself across his sleeve in an instant.
“Sure?” she answered. “Sure that I have wanted you? I have been nearly_dying_ for you!” with some affectionate extravagance.
“Are you sure,” he put it to her, “quite sure that you have notsometimes forgotten me for an hour or so?”
“No,” she answered, indignantly, “not for a single second;” which was awide assertion.
“Not,” he prompted her, somewhat bitterly, “when the MacDowlas givesdinner-parties, and you find yourself a prominent feature, ‘youngperson,’ as you are? Not when you wear the white merino, and ‘heavyswells’ admire you openly?”
“No,” shaking her head in stout denial of the imputation. “Never.I think about you from morning until night; and the fact is,” in acharming burst of candor, “I actually wake in the night and think aboutyou. There! are you satisfied now?”
It would have been impossible to remain altogether unconsoled andunmoved under such circumstances, but he could not help trying heragain.
“Dolly,” he said, “does Gowan never make you forget me?”
Then she saw what he meant, and flushed up to her forehead, drawing herhand away and speaking hotly.
“Oh!” she said, “it is _that_, is it?”
“Yes,” he answered her, “it is that.”
Then they stopped in their walk, and each looked at the other,--Griffithat Dolly, with a pale face and much of desperate, passionate appeal inhis eyes; Dolly at Griffith, with her small head thrown back in suddendefiance.
“I am making you angry and rousing you, Dolly,” he said; “but I cannothelp it. There is scarcely a week passes in which I do not hear thathe--that fellow--has managed to see you in one way or another. He canalways see you,” savagely. “_I_ don’t see you once a month.”
“Ah!” said Dolly, with cruel deliberation, “_this_ is what Aimée meantwhen she told me to be careful, and think twice before I did things. Isee now.”
I have never yet painted Dolly Crewe as being a young person of angelictemperament. I have owned that she flirted and had a temper in spite ofher Vagabondian good spirits, good-nature, and popularity; so myreaders will not be surprised at her resenting rather sharply what sheconsidered as being her lover’s lack of faith.
“I think,” she proceeded, opening her eyes wide and addressing him withher grandest air,--“I think I will walk the rest of my way alone, if youplease.”
It was very absurd and very tragical in a small way, of course, andassuredly she ought to have known better, and perhaps she did knowbetter, but just now she was very fierce and very sharply disappointed.She positively turned away as if to leave him, but he caught hold of herarm and held her.
“Dolly,” he cried, huskily, “you are not going away in that fashion. Wenever parted so in our lives.”
She half relented,--not quite, but nearly, so very nearly that shedid not try very hard to get away. It was Griffith, after all, who wastrying her patience--if Gowan or any other man on earth had dared toimply a doubt in her, she would have routed him magnificently--in twominutes; but Griffith--ah, well, Griffith was different.
“Whose fault is it?” she asked, breaking down ignominiously. “Who isto blame? I never ask you if other people make you forget me. I wantedto--to see you so much that I--I ran madly after you for a quarter of amile, at the risk of being looked upon as a lunatic by any one who mighthave chanced to see me. But you don’t care for that. I had better havebowed to you and passed on if we had met. Let me go!”
“No,” said Griffith, “you shall not go. God knows if I could keep you,you should never leave my arms again.”
“You would tire of me in a week, if I belonged to you in real earnest,” she said, not trying to get away at all now, however.
“Tire of you!” he exclaimed, in a shaken voice. “Of _you!_” And all atonce he drew her round so that the light of the nearest lamp could fallon her face. “Look here!” he whispered, sharply; “Dolly, I swear to you,that if there lives a man on earth base and heartless enough to rob meof you, I will kill him as sure as I breathe the breath of life!”
She had seen him impassioned enough often before, but she had never seenhim in as wild a mood as he was when he uttered these words. She was sofrightened that she broke into a little cry, and put her hand up to hislips.
“Griffith!” she said, “Grif!--dear old fellow. You don’t know what youare saying. Oh! don’t--don’t!”
Her horror brought him to his senses again; but he had terrified herso that she was trembling all over, and clung to him nervously when hetried to console her.
“It is n’t like _you_ to speak in such a way,” she faltered, in themidst of her tears. “Oh, how dreadfully wrong things must be getting, tomake you so cruel!”
It took so long a time to reassure and restore her to her calmness, thathe repented his rashness a dozen times. But he managed to comfort her atlength, though to the last she was tearful and dejected, and her voicewas broken with soft, sorrowful little catchings of the breath.
“Don’t let us talk about Ralph Gowan,” she pleaded, when hehad persuaded her to walk on with him again. “Let us talk aboutourselves,--we are always safe when we talk about ourselves,” with aninnocent, mournful smile.
And so they talked about themselves. He would have talked of anythingon earth to please her then. Talking of themselves, of course, impliedtalking nonsense,--affectionate, sympathetic nonsense, but stillnonsense; and so, for a while, they strolled on together, and were astenderly foolish and disconnected as two people could possibly be.
But, in spite of her resolution to avoid the subject, Dolly could nothelp drifting back to Ralph Gowan. “Griffith,” she said, plaintively,“you are very jealous of him.”
“I know that,” he answered.
“But don’t you _know_,” in desperate appeal, “that there is n’t theslightest need for you to be jealous of anybody?”
“I know,” he returned, dejectedly, “that I am a very wretched fellowsometimes.”
“Oh, dear!” sighed Dolly.
“I know,” he went on, “that seven years is a long probation, and thatthe prospect of another seven, or another two, for the matter of that,would drive me mad. I know I am growing envious and distrustful; Iknow that there are times when I hate that fellow so savagely that I amashamed of myself. Dolly, what has he ever done that he should saunteron the sunny side, clad in purple and fine linen all his life? The moneyhe throws away in a year would furnish the house at Putney.”
“Oh, dear!” burst forth Dolly. “You _are_ going wrong. It is all becauseI am not there to take care of you, too. Those are not the sentiments ofVagabondia, Grif.”
“No,” dryly; “they are of the earth, earthy.”
Dolly shook her head dolefully.
“Yes,” she acquiesced; “and they are a bit shabby, too. You are goingdown, Grif. You never used to be shabby. None of us were ever exactlythat, though we used to grumble sometimes. We used to grumble, notbecause other people had things, but because we had n’t them.”
“I am getting hardened, I suppose,” bitterly. “And it is hardly to bewondered at.”
“Hardened!” She stopped him that moment, and stood before him, holdinghis arm and looking up at him. “Hardened!” she repeated. “Grif, if yousay that again, I will never forgive you. What is the good of our lovefor each other if it won’t keep our hearts soft? When we get hardened weshall love each other no longer. What have we told each other all theseyears? Have n’t we said that so long as we had one another we could bearanything, and not envy other people? It was n’t all talk and sentiment,was it? It was n’t on _my_ part, Grif. I meant it then, and I mean itnow, though I know there are many good, kind-hearted people in
the worldwho would not understand it, and would say I was talking unpracticalrubbish, if they heard me. Hardened! Grif, while you have me, and I haveyou, and there is nothing on our two consciences? Why, it sounds,”--withanother most dubious shake of her small head,--“it sounds as if youwould n’t care about the house at Putney!”
He was conquered, of course; before she had spoken a dozen words hehad been conquered; but this figure of his not caring for the house atPutney broke him utterly. He did not look very hardened when he answeredher.
“Dolly,” he said, “you are an angel! I have told you so before, and itmay be a proof of the barrenness of my resources to tell you so again,but it is true. God forgive me, my precious! I should like to see theman whose heart could harden while such a woman loved him.”
It was a pretty sight to see her put her hands on his shoulders, andstand on tiptoe to kiss him, in her honest, earnest way, without waitingfor him to ask her.
“Ah!” she said, “I knew it wasn’t true,” and then, still letting herhands rest on his shoulders, she burst forth in her tender, impulsiveway again. “Grif,” she said, “I don’t think I am very wise, and I knowI am not very thoughtful. I do things often that it would be betterto leave undone,--I am fond of making the Philistines admire me, and Isometimes tease you; but, dear old fellow, right deep down at the bottomof my heart,” faltering slightly, “I do--_do_ want to be a goodwoman; and there is never a night passes--though I never told you sobefore--that I do not pray to God to let me help you and let you help meto be tender and faithful and true.”
It was the old story,--love was king. Wisdom to the winds! Practicalityto the corners of the earth! Prudence, power, and grandeur, hide yourdiminished heads! Here were two people who cared nothing for you, andwho flung you aside without a fear as they stood together under thetrees in the raw evening air,--one a penniless little hired entertainerof elderly ladies, the other an equally impecunious bondsman in a dingyoffice.
They were quite happy,--even happy when time warned them that they mustbid each other goodnight. They walked together to the gates of BarbazonLodge, and parted in a state of bliss.
“Good-night,” said Dolly. “Be good,--as somebody wise once said,--‘Begood, and you will be happy.’”
“Good-night,” answered Griffith; “but might n’t he have put it the otherway, Dolly, ‘Be happy, and you will be good--because you can’t helpit’?”
He had his hand on _her_ shoulder, this time, and as she laughed she puther face down so that her soft, warm cheek nestled against it.
“But he didn’t put it that way,” she objected. “And we must take wisdomas it comes. There! I must go now,” rather in a hurry. “Some one iscoming--see!”
“Confound it!” he observed, devoutly. “Who is it?”
“I don’t know,” answered Dolly; “but you must let me go. Good-night,again.”
He released her, and she ran in through the gate, and up the gravelwalk, and so he was left to turn away and pass the intruder with anappearance of nonchalance. And pass him he did, though whether withsuccessful indifference or not, one can hardly say; but in passing himhe looked up, and in looking up he recognized Ralph Gowan.
“Going to see her,” he said, to himself, just as poor Mollie had saidthe same thing, and just with the same heartburn. “The dev--But, no,” hebroke off sharply, “I won’t begin again. It is as she says,--the blessedlittle darling!--it is shabby to be down on him because he has the bestof it.” And he went on his way, not rejoicing, it is true, but stilltrying to crush down a by no means unnatural feeling of rebellion.
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