CHAPTER XV. ~ IN WHICH WE TRY SWITZERLAND.
IN the morning of one of the hot days in June, Mollie, standing at thewindow of Phil’s studio, turned suddenly toward the inmates of the roomwith an exclamation.
“Phil!” she said, “Toinette! There is a carriage drawing up before thedoor.”
“Lady Augusta?” said Toinette, making a dart at Tod.
“Confound Lady Augusta!” ejaculated Phil, devoutly. “That woman has agenius for presenting herself at inopportune times.”
“But it is n’t Lady Augusta,” Mollie objected. “It is n’t the Bilberrycarriage at all. Do you think I don’t know ‘the ark’?”
“You ought to by this time,” returned Phil. “I do, to my own deepgrief.”
“It is the Brabazon Lodge carriage!” cried Mollie, all at once. “MissMacDowlas is getting out, and--yes, here is Dolly!”
“And Tod just washed and dressed!” said Mrs. Phil, picking up heroffspring with an air of self-congratulation. “Miracle of miracles! TheFates begin to smile upon us. Phil, how is my back hair?”
“All right,” returned Phil. “I suppose I shall have to present myself,too.”
It was necessary that they should all present themselves, they found.Miss MacDowlas wished to form the acquaintance of the whole family, itappeared, and apart from this her visit had rather an important object.
“It is a sort of farewell visit,” she explained, “though, of course, thefarewell is only to be a temporary one. We find London too hot for us,and we are going to try Switzerland. The medical man thinks a changewill be beneficial to your sister.”
They all looked at Dolly then,--at Dolly in her delicate, crisp summerbravery and her pretty summer hat; but it was neither hat nor dress thatdrew their eyes upon her all at once in that new questioning way. ButDolly only laughed,--a soft, nervous laugh, however,--and played withher much-frilled parasol.
“Miss MacDowlas,” she said, “is good enough to fancy I am not so well asI ought to be, Tod,” bending her face low over the pretty littlefellow, who had trotted to her knee. “What do you think of Aunt Dolly’sappearing in the character of invalid? It sounds like the best of jokes,does n’t it, Tod?”
They tried to smile responsively, all of them, but the effort was not asuccess. Despite all her pretence of brightness and coquettish attire,there was not one of them who had not been startled when their firstgreeting was over. Under the triumph of a hat, her face showed almostsharply cut, her skin far too transparently colorless, her eyes much toolarge and bright. The elaborately coiled braids of hair seemed almosttoo heavy for the slender throat to bear, and no profusion of trimmingcould hide that the little figure was worn. The flush and glow andspirit had died away from her. It was not the Dolly who had been wontto pride herself upon ruling supreme in Vagabondia, who sat there beforethem making them wonder; it was a new creature, who seemed quite astranger to them.
They were glad to see how fond of her Miss MacDowlas appeared to be.They had naturally not had a very excellent opinion of Miss MacDowlas inthe past days; but the fact that Dolly had managed to so win upon her asto bring out her best side, quite softened their hearts. She was notso grim, after all. Her antipathy to Grif had evidently been her mostunpleasant peculiarity, and now, seeing her care for this new Dolly, whoneeded care so much, they were rather touched.
When the farewells had been said, the carriage had driven away, and theyhad returned to the studio, a silence seemed to fall upon them, one andall. ‘Toinette sat in her chair, holding Tod, without speaking; Molliestood near her with a wondering, downcast air; Phil went to the window,and, neglecting his picture wholly for the time being, looked out intothe street, whistling softly.
At length he turned round to Aimée.
“Aimée,” he said, abruptly, “how long has this been going on?”
“You mean this change?” said Aimée, in a low voice.
“Yes.”
“For three months,” she answered. “I did not like to tell you becauseI knew _she_ would not like it; but it dates from the time Grif wentaway.”
Mrs. Phil burst into an impetuous gush of tears, hiding her handsome,girlish face on Tod’s neck.
“It is a shame!” she cried out. “It is a cruel, burning shame! Who wouldever have thought of Grif’s treating her like this?”
“Yes,” said Phil; “and who would ever have thought that Dolly wouldhave broken down? Dolly! By George! I can’t believe it. If I am able tojudge, it seems time that she should try Switzerland or somewhere else.Aimée, has she heard nothing of him?”
“Nothing.”
The young man flushed hotly.
“Confound it!” he burst forth. “It looks as if the fellow was adishonorable scamp. And yet he is the last man I should ever havefancied would prove a scamp.”
“But he has not proved himself a scamp yet,” said Aimée, in a troubledtone. “And Dolly would not like to hear you say so. And if you knew thewhole truth you _wouldn’t_ say so. He has been tried too far, and he hasbeen impetuous and rash, but it was his love for Dolly that made him so.And wherever he may be, Phil, I know he is as wretched and hopeless asDolly herself could be at the worst. It has all been misunderstandingand mischance.”
“He has broken Dolly’s heart, nevertheless,” cried Mrs. Phil. “And ifshe dies--”
“Dies!” cried out Mollie, opening her great eyes and turning pale all atonce. “Dies! Dolly?”
“Hush!” said Aimée, trembling and losing color herself. “Oh,hush!--don’t say such things. It sounds so dreadful,--it is too dreadfulto think of!”
And so it came about that on another of these hot June days thereappeared at the _table à hôte_ of a certain well-conducted and alreadywell-filled inn at Lake Geneva two new arrivals,--a tall, thin, elderlylady of excessively English exterior, and a young person who attractedsome attention,--a girl who wore a long black dress, and had apicturesque Elizabethan frill about her too slender throat, and who,in spite of her manner and the clearness of her bright voice, was toowhitely transparent of complexion and too finely cut of face to look asstrong as a girl of one or two and twenty ought to be.
The people who took stock of them, after the manner of all unoccupiedhotel sojourners on the lookout for sensations, noticed this. One ortwo of them even observed that, on entering the room after the slightexertion of descending the staircase, the girl was slightly out ofbreath and seemed glad to sit down, and that, her companion evidentlymaking some remark upon the fact, she half laughed, as if wishing tomake light of it; and they noticed, too, that her naturally small handswere so very slender that her one simple little ring of amethyst andpearls slipped loosely up and down her finger.
They were not ordinary tourists, these new arrivals, it was clear. Theirattire told that at once. They had removed their travelling dresses, andlooked as if they had quite made up their minds to enjoy their customarymode of life as if they had been at home. They had no courier,the wiseacres had ascertained, and they had brought a neat Englishserving-woman, who seemed to know her business marvellously well and beby no means unaccustomed to travelling.
“Aunt and niece!” commented one gentleman, surveying Dolly over hissoup. “A nice little creature,--the niece.” And he mentally resolved tocultivate her acquaintance. But it was not such an easy matter. The newarrivals were unlike ordinary tourists in other respects than intheir settled mode of life. They did not seem to care to form chanceacquaintance with their fellow guests. They lived quietly and, unlesswhen driving out together or taking short, unfatiguing strolls, remainedmuch in their own apartments. They appeared at the _table d’hôte_occasionally; but though they were pleasant in manner they were notcommunicative, and so, after a week or so, people tired of askingquestions about them and lapsed into merely exchanging greetings,and looking on with some interest at any changes they observed in thepretty, transparent, though always bright face, and the pliant, softyoung figure.
Thus Miss MacDowlas and her companion “tried Switzerland.”
<
br /> “It will do you good, my dear, and brace you up,” the elder lady hadsaid; and from the bottom of her heart she had hoped it would.
And did it?
Well, the last time Dolly had “tried Switzerland,” she had tried it inthe capacity of Lady Augusta’s governess, and she had held in chargea host of rampant young Bilberrys, who secretly loathed their dailyduties, and were not remarkable in the matter of filial piety, and wereonly reconciled to existence by the presence of their maternal parent’sgreatest trial, that highly objectionable Dorothea Crewe. So, takingLady Augusta in conjunction with her young charges, the girl had oftenfelt her lot by no means the easiest in the world; but youth and spirit,and those oft-arriving letters, had helped her to bear a great deal,and so there was still something sweet about the memory. Oh, thoseold letters--those foolish, passionate, tender letters--written in thedusty, hot London office, read with such happiness, and answered on suchclosely penned sheets of foreign paper! How she had used to watch forthem, and carry them to her small bedroom and read them again and again,kneeling on the floor by the open window, the fresh, soft summer breezesfrom the blue lake far below stirring her hair and kissing her forehead!How doubly and trebly fair she had been wont to fancy everything lookedon that “letter day” of hers,--that red-letter day,--that golden-letterday!
The very letters she had written then lay in her trunk now, tiedtogether in a bundle, just as Grif had brought them and laid them downupon the table when he gave her up forever. Her “dead letter” lay withthem,--that last, last appeal, which had never reached his heart, andnever would. She had written her last letter to him, and he his last toher.
And now she had been brought to “try Switzerland” and Lake Geneva as aLethe.
But she had determined to be practical and courageous, and bear it asbest she might. It would not have been like her to give way at oncewithout a struggle. She did not believe in lovelorn damsels, who pinedaway and died of broken hearts, and made all their friends uncomfortableby so doing. She made a struggle, and refused to give up. She grewshadowy and fair; but it was under protest, and she battled against thechange she felt creeping upon her so slowly but so surely. She showeda brave face to people, and tried to be as bright and ready-wittedas ever; and if she failed it was not her own fault. She fought hardagainst her sleepless nights and weary days; and when she lay awakehour after hour hearing the clock strike, it was not because she madeno effort to compose herself, it was only because the delicate wheelsof thought _would_ work against her helpless will, and it was worse thanuseless to close her eyes when she could see so plainly her lostlover’s desperate, anguished face, and hear so distinctly his strained,strangely altered voice: “No, it is too late for that now,--that is allover!” And he had once loved her better than his life!
So it was that, try as she might, she could not make Switzerland asuccess. When she went down to the table d’hôte, people saw that insteadof growing stronger she was growing more frail, and the exertion ofcoming down the long flight of stairs tried her more than it had seemedto do that first day. Sometimes she had a soft, lovely, dangerous coloron her cheeks, and her eyes looked almost translucent; and then againthe color was gone, her skin was white and transparent, and her eyeswere shadowy and languid. When the hot July days came in, the ring ofpearls and amethyst would stay on the small worn hand no longer, and sowas taken off and hung with the little bunch of coquettish “charms” uponher chain. But she was not conquered yet, and the guests and servantsoften heard her laughing, and making Miss MacDowlas laugh as they sattogether in their private parlor.
The two were sitting thus together one Saturday early in July,--Dolly ina loose white wrapper, resting in a low basket chair by the open window,and fanning herself languidly,--when a visitor was announced, and themoment after the announcement a tall young lady rushed into the roomand clasped Dolly unceremoniously in her arms, either not observing ortotally ignoring Miss MacDowlas’s presence.
“Dolly!” she cried, kneeling down by the basket chair and speaking sofast that her words tumbled over each other, and her sentences werecuriously mingled. “Oh! if you please, dear, I know it was n’t polite,and I never meant to do it in such an unexpected, awfully rude way; andwhat mamma would say, I am sure I cannot tell, unless go into dignifiedconvulsions, and shudder herself stiff; but how could I help it, whenI came expecting to see you as bright and lovely as ever, and caught aglimpse of you through the door, as the servant spoke, sitting here sowhite and thin and tired-looking! Oh, dear! oh, dear! how ever can itbe!”
“My dear Phemie!” said Dolly, laughing and crying both at once, throughweakness and sympathy,--for of course poor, easily moved Phemie hadburst into a flood of affectionate tears. “My dear child, how excitedyou are, and how pleasant it is to see you! How did you manage to come?”
“The professor with the lumpy face--poor, pale darling--I mean you, nothim,” explained the eldest Miss Bilberry, clinging to her ex-governessas if she was afraid of seeing her float through the open window. “Theprofessor with the lumpy face, Dolly; which shows he is not so horrid asI always thought him, and I am very sorry for being so inconsiderate, Iam sure--you know he cannot help his lumps any more than I can help mydreadful red hands and my dresses not fitting.”
Dolly stopped her here to introduce her to Miss MacDowlas; and thatlady having welcomed her good-naturedly, and received her incoherentapologies for her impetuous lack of decorum, the explanation proceeded.
“How could the professor send you here?” asked Dolly.
“He did not exactly send me, but he helped me,” replied the lucklessEuphemia, becoming a trifle more coherent. “I saw you at the littlechurch, though you did not see me, because, of course, we sit in themost disagreeable part, just where we can’t see or be seen at all. Andthough I only saw you at a distance, and through your veil, and halfbehind a pillar, I knew you, and knew Miss MacDowlas. I think I knewMiss MacDowlas most because she _wasn’t_ behind the pillar. And itnearly drove me crazy to think you were so near, and I gave one of theservants some money to find out where you were staying, and she broughtme word that you were staying here, and meant to stay. And then Iasked the lady principal to let me come and see you, and of courseshe refused; and I never should have been able to come at all, only itchanced that was my music-lesson day, and I went in to the professorwith red eyes,--I had cried so,--and when he asked me what I had beencrying for, I remembered that he used to be fond of you, and I toldhim. And he was sorry for me, and promised to ask leave for me. He is acousin of the lady principal, and a great favorite with her. And the endof it was that they let me come. And I have almost flown. I had to waituntil to-day, you know, because it was Saturday.”
It was quite touching to see how, when she stopped speaking, she clungto Dolly’s hands, and looked at her with wonder and grief in her face.
“What is it that has changed you so?” she said. “You are not likeyourself at all. Oh, my dear, how ill you are!”
A wistful shadow showed itself in the girl’s eyes.
“_Am_ I so much changed?” she asked.
“You do not look like our Dolly at all,” protested Phemie. “You arethin,--oh, so thin! What _is_ the matter?”
“Thin!” said Dolly. “Am I? Then I must be growing ugly enough. Perhapsit is to punish me for being so vain about my figure. Don’t you rememberwhat a dread I always had of growing thin? Just to think that _I_ shouldgrow thin, after all! Do my bones stick out like the Honorable CeciliaHowland’s, Phemie?” And she ended with a little laugh.
Phemie kissed her, in affectionate protest against such an idea.
“Oh, dear, no!” she said. “They could n’t, you know. They are notthe kind of bones to do it. Just think of her dreadful elbows and herfearful shoulder-blades! You couldn’t look like her. I don’t mean thatsort of thinness at all. But you seem so light and so little. And lookhere,” and she held up the painfully small hand, the poor little handwithout the ring. “There are no dimples here now, Dolly,” she said,sorro
wfully.
“No,” answered Dolly, simply; and the next minute, as she drew her handaway, there fluttered from her lips a sigh.
She managed to change the turn of conversation after this. MissMacDowlas had good-naturedly left them alone, and so she began to askPhemie questions,--questions about school and lessons and companions,about the lady principal and the under-teachers and about the professorwith the lumpy face; and, despite appearances being against her, therewas still the old ring in her girl’s jests.
“Has madame got a new bonnet yet,” she asked, “or does she still wearthe old one with those aggressive-looking spikes of wheat in it? Thelean ears ought to have eaten up the fat ones by this time.”
“But they have n’t,” returned Phemie. “They are there yet, Dolly. Justthe same spikes in the same bonnet, only she has had new saffron-coloredribbon put on it, just the shade of her skin.”
Dolly shuddered,--Lady Augusta’s own semi-tragic shudder, if Phemie hadonly recognized it.
“Phemie,” she said, with a touch of pardonable anxiety, “ill as I look,I am not that color, am I? To lose one’s figure and grow thin is badenough, but to become like Madame Pillet--dear me!” shaking her head. “Iscarcely think I could reconcile myself to existence.”
Phemie laughed. “You are not changed in one respect, Dolly,” she said.“When I hear you talk it makes me feel quite--quite safe.”
“Safe!” Dolly echoed. “You mean to say that so long as I preserve myconstitutional vanity, your anxiety won’t overpower you. But--but,” looking at her curiously, “did you think at first that I was not safe,as you call it?”
“You looked so ill,” faltered Phemie. “And--I was so startled.”
“Were you?” asked Dolly. “Did I shock you?”
“A little--only just a little, dear,” deprecatingly.
Then strangely enough fell upon them a silence. Dolly turned toward thewindow, and her eyes seemed to fix themselves upon some far-away point,as if she was pondering over a new train of thought. And when at lastshe spoke, her voice was touched with the tremulous unsteadiness oftears.
“Do you think,” she said, slowly,--“do you think that _any one_ who hadloved me would be shocked to see me now? Am I so much altered asthat? One scarcely sees these things one’s self,--they come to pass sogradually.”
All poor Phemie’s smiles died away.
“Don’t let us talk about it,” she pleaded. “I cannot bear to hear youspeak so. Don’t, dear--if you please, don’t!”
Her pain was so evident that it roused Dolly at once.
“I won’t, if it troubles you,” she said, almost in her natural manner.“It does not matter,--why should it? There is no one here to be shocked.I was only wondering.”
But the shadow did not quite leave her face, and even when, an hourlater, Euphemia bade her good-by and left her, promising to return againas soon as possible, it was there still.
She was very, very quiet for a few minutes after she found herselfalone. She clasped her hands behind her head, and lay back in the lightchair, looking out of the window. She was thinking so deeply that shedid not even stir for a while; but in the end she got up, as thoughmoved by some impulse, and crossed the room.
Against the wall hung a long, narrow mirror, and she went to this mirrorand stood before it, looking at herself from head to foot,--at herpiteously sharpened face, with its large, wondering eyes, eyes thatwondered at themselves,--at the small, light figure so painfullyetherealized, and about which the white wrapper hung so loosely. Sheeven held up, at last, the slender hand and arm; but when she saw theseuplifted, appealing, as it were, for this sad, new face which did notseem her own, she broke into a little cry of pain and grief.
“If you could see me now,” she said, “if you should come here by chanceand see me now, my dear, I think you would not wait to ask whether I hadbeen true or false. I never laid this white cheek on your shoulder, didI? Oh, what a changed face it is! I know I was never very pretty, thoughyou thought so and were proud of me in your tender way, but I was notlike this in those dear old days. Grif, Grif, would you know me,--wouldyou _know_ me?” And, turning to her chair again, she dropped upon herknees before it, and knelt there sobbing.
Vagabondia Page 15
