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  CHAPTER XI. ~ IN WHICH COMES A WIND WHICH BLOWS NOBODY GOOD.

  THEEE weeks waited the wise one, keeping her eyes on the alert and hersmall brain busy, but preserving an owl-like silence upon the subjectrevolving in her mind. But at the end of that time she marched into theparlor one day, attired for a walk, and astonished them all by gravelyannouncing her intention of going to see Dolly.

  “What are you going for?” said Mrs. Phil.

  “Rather sudden, is n’t it?” commented Mollie.

  “I ‘m going on business,” returned Aimée, and she buttoned her glovesand took her departure, without enlightening them further.

  Arriving at Brabazon Lodge, she found Miss MacDowlas out and Dollysitting alone in the parlor, with a letter from Griffith in her hand andtears in her eyes.

  Her visitor walked to the hearth, her face wrinkling portentously, andkissed her with an air of affectionate severity.

  “I don’t know,” she began, comprehending matters at a glance, “I am sureI don’t know what I am to do with you all. _You_ are in trouble now.”

  “Take off your things,” said Dolly, with a helpless little sob,“and--and then I will tell you all about it. You must stay and havetea with me. Miss MacDowlas is away, and I--am all alone, and--and, OAimée!”

  The hat and jacket were laid aside in two minutes, and Aimée came backto her and knelt down.

  “Is there anything in your letter you do not want me to see?” she asked.

  “No,” answered Dolly, in despair, and tossed it into her lap.

  It was no new story, but this time the Fates seemed to have conspiredagainst her more maliciously than usual. A few days before Grif hadfound himself terribly dashed in spirit, and under the influence ofimpulse had written to her. Two or three times in one day he had heardaccidental comments upon Gowan’s attentions to her, and on his return tohis lodgings at night he had appealed to her in a passionate epistle.

  He was not going to doubt her again, he said, and he was struggling toface the matter coolly, but he wanted to see her. It would be worse thanuseless to call upon her at the Lodge, and have an interview under thedisapproving eyes of Miss MacDowlas, and so he had thought they mightmeet again by appointment, as they had done before by chance. And Dollyhad acquiesced at once. But Fortune was against her. Just as she hadbeen ready to leave the house, Ralph Gowan had made his appearance, andMiss MacDowlas had called her down-stairs to entertain him.

  “I would not have cared about telling,” cried Dolly, in tears, “but Icould not tell her, and so I had to stay, and--actually--_sing_--Aimée.Yes, sing detestable love-sick songs, while my own darling, whom I was_dying_ to go to, was waiting outside in the cold. And that was not theworst, either. He was just outside in the road, and when the servantslighted the gas he saw me through the window. And I was at thepiano”--in a burst--“and Ralph Gowan was standing by me. And so he wenthome and wrote _that_,” signifying with a gesture the letter Aimée held.“And everything is wrong again.”

  It was very plain that everything _was_ wrong again. The epistle inquestion was an impetuous, impassioned effusion enough. He was furiousagainst Gowan, and bitter against everybody else. She had cheated andslighted and trifled with him when he most needed her love and pity; buthe would not blame her, he could only blame himself for being such aninsane, presumptuous fool as to fancy that anything he had to offercould be worthy of any woman.

  What had he to offer, etc., for half a dozen almost illegible pages,dashed and crossed, and all on fire with his bitterness and pain.

  Having taken it from Aimée, and read it for the twentieth time, Dollyfairly wrung her hands over it.

  “If we were only just _together!_” she cried. “If we only just had thetiniest, shabbiest house in the world, and could be married and helpeach other! He does n’t mean to be unjust or unkind, you know, Aimée; hewould be more wretched than I am if he knew how unhappy he has made me.”

  “Ah!” sighed Aimée. “He should think of that before he begins.”

  Then she regained possession of the letter, and smoothed out its creaseson her knee, finishing by folding it carefully and returning it to itsenvelope, looking very grave all the time.

  “Will you lend me this?” she said at last, holding the epistle up.

  “What are you going to do with it?” asked Dolly, disconsolately.

  “I am going to ask Griffith to read it again. I shall be sure to see himto-morrow night.”

  “Very well,” answered Dolly; “but don’t be too hard upon him, Aimée. Hehas a great deal to bear.”

  “I know that,” said Aimée. “And sometimes he bears it very well; butjust now he needs a little advice.”

  Troubled as she was, Dolly laughed at the staid expression on her small,discreet face; but even as she laughed she caught the child in her armsand kissed her.

  “What should we do without you!” she exclaimed. “We need some one tokeep us all straight, we Vagabonds; but it seems queer that such a smallwiseacre as you should be our controlling power.”

  The mere sight of the small wiseacre had a comforting effect upon her.Her spirits began to rise, and she so far recovered herself as to beable to look matters in the face more cheerfully. There was so muchto talk about, and so many questions to ask, that it would have beenimpossible to remain dejected and uninterested. It was not until aftertea, however, that Aimée brought her “business” upon the carpet. She hadthought it best not to introduce the subject during the earlier partof the evening; but when the tea-tray was removed, and they foundthemselves alone again, she settled down, and applied herself at once tothe work before her.

  “I have not told you yet what I came here for this afternoon,” she said.

  “You don’t mean to intimate that you did not come to see me!” saidDolly.

  “I came to see you, of course,” decidedly; “but I came to see you for apurpose. I came to talk to you about Mollie.”

  Dolly almost turned pale.

  “Mollie!” she exclaimed. “What is the trouble about Mollie?”

  “Something that puzzles me,” was the answer. “Dolly, do you knowanything about Gerald Chandos?”

  “What!” said Dolly. “It is Gerald Chandos, is it? He is not a fitcompanion for her, I know that much.”

  And then she repeated, word for word, the conversation she had had withRalph Gowan.

  Having listened to the end, Aimée shook her head.

  “I like Mr. Gowan well enough,” she said, “but he has been the cause ofa great deal of trouble among us, without meaning to be, and I am afraidit is not at an end yet.”

  They were both silent for a few moments after this, and then Dolly,looking up, spoke with a touch of reluctance.

  “I dare say you can answer me a question I should like to ask you?” shesaid.

  “If it is about Mollie, I think I can,” Aimée returned.

  “You have been with her so long,” Dolly went on, two tiny lines showingthemselves upon _her_ forehead this time, “and you are so quick atseeing things, that you must know what there is to know. And yet ithardly seems fair to ask. Ralph Gowan goes to Bloomsbury Place often,does he not?”

  “He goes very often, and he seems to care more for Mollie than for anyof the rest of us.”

  “Aimée,” Dolly said next, “does--this is my question--does Mollie carefor him?”

  “Yes, she does,” answered Aimée. “She cares for him so much that she ismaking herself miserable about him.”

  “Oh, dear!” cried Dolly. “What--”

  Aimée interrupted her.

  “And that is not the worst. The fact is, Dolly, I don’t know what tomake of her. If it was any one but Mollie, or if Mollie was a bit lessinnocent and impetuous, I should not be so much afraid; but sometimesshe is angry with herself, and sometimes she is angry with him, andsometimes she is both, and then I should not be surprised at her doinganything innocent and frantic. Poor child! It is my impression she hasabout half made up her mind to the desperate resolve of makin
g a grandmarriage. She said as much the other night, and I think that is why sheencourages Mr. Chandos.”

  “Oh, dear,” cried Dolly, again. “And does she think he wants to marryher?”

  “She knows he makes violent love to her, and she is not worldly-wiseenough to know that Lord Burleighs are out of date.”

  “Out of date!” said Dolly; “I doubt if they ever were in date. Men likeMr. Gerald Chandos would hesitate at marrying Venus from BloomsburyPlace.”

  “If it was Ralph Gowan,” suggested Aimée.

  “But Ralph Gowan is n’t like Chandos,” Dolly returned, astutely. “He isworth ten thousand of him. I wish he would fall in love with Mollie andmarry her. Poor Mollie! Poor, pretty, headlong little goose! What are weto do with her?”

  “Mr. Gowan is very fond of her, in a way,” said Aimée. “If he did notcare a little for you--”

  “I wish he did not!” sighed Dolly. “But it serves me right,” withcandor. “He would never have thought of me again if I--well, if I hadn’t found things so dreadfully dull at that Bilberry clan gathering.”

  “‘If,’” moralized Aimée, significantly. “‘If’ is n’t a wise word, andit often gets you into trouble, Dolly. If you hadn’t, it would have beenbetter for Grif, as well; but what cannot be cured must be endured.”

  Their long talk ended, however, in Dolly’s great encouragement. It wasagreed that the family oracle was to bring Griffith to his senses bymeans of some slight sisterly reproof, and that she was to take Molliein hand discreetly at once and persuade her to enter the confessional.

  “She has altered a great deal, and has grown much older and moreself-willed lately,” said Aimée; “but if I am very straightforward andtake her by surprise, I scarcely think she will be able to conceal muchfrom me, and, at least, I shall be able to show her that her fancies areromantic and unpractical.”

  She did not waste any time before applying herself to her work, when shewent home. Instead of going to Bloomsbury Place at once, she stopped atGriffith’s lodgings on her way, and rather scandalized his landlady byrequesting to be shown into his parlor. Only the grave simplicity of thesmall, slight figure in its gray cloak, and the steadfast seriousnessin the pretty face reconciled the worthy matron to the idea of admittingher without investigation. But Aimée bore her scrutiny very calmly.The whole family of them had taken tea in the little sitting-room withGriffith, upon one or two occasions, so she was not at all at a loss,although she did not find herself recognized.

  “I am one of Mr. Crewe’s sisters,” she said; and that, of course,was quite enough. Mrs. Cripps knew Mr. Crewe as well as she knew Grifhimself, so she stepped back into the narrow passage at once, and evenopened the parlor door, and announced the visitor in a way that madepoor Grif s heart beat.

  “One of Mr. Crewe’s sisters,” she said.

  He had been sitting glowering over the fire, with his head on his handsand his elbows on his knees, and when he started up he looked quitehaggard and dishevelled. Was it--_could_ it be Dolly? He knew it couldnot be, but he turned pale at the thought. It would have been suchrapture, in his present frame of mind, to have poured out his misery anddistrust, and then to have clasped her to his heart before she hadtime to explain. He was just in that wretched, passionate, relenting,remorseful stage.

  But it was only Aimée, in her gray cloak; and as the door closed behindher, that small person advanced toward him, crumpling her white foreheadand looking quite disturbed at the mere sight of him. She held up areproachful finger at him warningly.

  “I knew it would be just this way,” she said. “And you are paler andmore miserable than ever. If you and Dolly would just be more practicaland reason more for each other, instead of falling headlong intoquarrels and making everything up headlong every ten minutes, how muchbetter it would be for you! If I was not so fond of you both, you wouldbe the greatest trials I have.”

  He was so glad to see the thoughtful, womanly little creature, thathe could have caught her up in his arms, gray cloak and all, and havekissed her only a tithe less impetuously than he would have kissedDolly. He was one of the most faithful worshippers at her shrine,and her pretty wisdom and unselfishness had won her many. He drew theeasiest chair up to the fire for her, and made her sit down and warmher feet on the fender, while she talked to him, and he listened to herevery word, as he always did.

  “I have been to see Dolly,” she said, “and I found her crying,--all byherself and crying.” And she paused to note the effect of her words.

  His heart gave a great thump. It always did give a hard thump when hethought of Dolly as she looked when she cried,--a soft, limp littlebundle of pathetic prettiness, covering her dear little face in herhands, shedding such piteous, impassioned tears, and refusing to bekissed or comforted. Dolly sobbing on his shoulder was so different fromthe coquettish, shrewd, mock-worldly Dolly other people saw.

  Aimée put her hand into her dress-pocket under the gray cloak andproduced her letter,--took it out of its envelope, laid it on her knee,and smoothed out its creases again.

  “She was crying over this letter,” she proceeded,--“your letter; the oneyou wrote to her when I think you cannot have been quite calm enough towrite anything. I think you cannot have read it over before sending itaway. It is always best to read a letter _twice_ before posting it. SoI have brought it to you to read again, and there it is,” giving it tohim.

  He burst forth with the story of his wrongs, of course, then. He couldnot keep it in any longer. Things had gone wrong with him in every waybefore this had happened, he said, and he had longed so for just onehour in which Dolly could comfort him and try to help him to pluck upspirits again, and she had written to him a tender little letter, andpromised to give him that hour, and he had been so full of impatienceand love, and he had gone to the very gates and waited like a beggaroutside, lest he should miss her by any chance, and the end of hiswaiting had been that he had caught a glimpse of the bright, warm room,and the piano, and Dolly with Gowan bending over her as if she had noother lover in the world. He told it all in a burst, clenching his handand scarcely stopping for breath; but when he ended he dashed the letterdown, pushed his chair round, and dropped his head on his folded arms onthe table, with a wild, tearing sob.

  “It is no fault of hers,” he cried, “and it was only the first stingthat made me reproach her. I shall never do it again. She is only in theright, and that fellow is in the right when he tells himself that hecan take better care of her and make her happier than I can. I will be acoward no longer,--not an hour longer. I will give her up to-night. Shewill learn to love him--he is a gentleman at least--if I were inhis place I should never fear that she would not learn in time, andforget--and forget the poor, selfish beggar who would have died for her,and yet was not man enough to control the jealous rage that torturedher. I ‘ll give her up. I’ll give it all up--but, oh! my God! Dolly,the--the little house, and--and the dreams I have had about it!”

  Aimée was almost in despair. This was not one of his ordinary moods;this was the culminating point,--the culmination of all his oldsufferings and pangs. He had been working slowly toward this throughall the old unhappiness and self-reproach. The constant droppings of thebygone years had worn away the stone at last, and he could not bear muchmore. Aimée was frightened now. Her habit of forethought showed herall this in a very few seconds. His nervous, highly strung, impassionedtemperament had broken down at last. Another blow would be too much forhim. If she could not manage to set him right now and calm him, and ifthings went wrong again, she was secretly conscious of feeling that theconsequences could not be foreseen. There was nothing wild and rash andwretched he might not do.

  She got up and went to him, and leaned upon the table, clasping hercool, firm little hand upon his hot, desperate one. A woman of fiftycould not have had the power over him that this slight, inexperiencedlittle creature had. Her childish face caught color and life andstrength in her determination to do her best for these two whom sheloved so well. Her small-boned, f
ragile figure deceived people intoundervaluing her reserve forces; but there was mature feeling andpurpose enough in her to have put many a woman three times her age toshame. The light, cool touch of her hand soothed and controlled Griffithfrom the first, and when she put forth all her powers of reasoning, andset his trouble before him in a more practical and less headlong way,not a word was lost upon him. She pictured Dolly to him just as she hadfound her holding his letter in her hand, and she pictured her too asshe had really been the night he watched her through the window,--notstaying because she cared for Gowan, but because circumstances hadforced her to remain when she was longing in her own impetuous prettyway to fly to him, and give him the comfort he needed. And she gaveDolly’s story in Dolly’s own words, with the little sobs between, andthe usual plentiful sprinkling of sweet, foolish, loving epithets,and--with innocent artfulness--made her seem so charming andaffectionate, a little centre-figure in the picture she drew, that noman with a heart in his breast could have resisted her, and by thetime Aimée had finished, Grif was so far moved that it seemed a sheerimpossibility to speak again of relinquishing his claims.

  But he could not regain his spirits sufficiently to feel able to sayvery much. He quieted down, but he was still down at heart and crushedin feeling, and could do little else but listen in a hopeless sort ofway.

  “I will tell you what you shall do,” Aimée said at last. “You shall seeDolly yourself,--not on the street, but just as you used to see herwhen she was at home. She shall come home some afternoon. I know MissMacDowlas will let her,--and you shall sit in the parlor together, Grif,and make everything straight, and begin afresh.”

  He could not help being roused somewhat by such a prospect. The cloudwas lifted for one instant, even if it fell upon him again the next.

  “I shall have to wait a week,” he said. “Old Flynn has asked me to goto Dartmouth, to attend to some business for him, and I leave hereto-morrow morning.”

  “Very well!” she answered. “If we must wait a week, we must; but you canwrite to Dolly in the interval, and settle upon the day, and then shecan speak to Miss MacDowlas.”

  He agreed to the plan at once, and promised to write to Dolly that verynight. So the young peacemaker’s mind was set at rest upon this subject,at least, and after giving him a trifle more advice, and favoring himwith a few more sage axioms, she prepared to take her departure.

  “You may put on your hat and take me to the door; but you had better notcome in if you are going to finish your letter before the post closes,” she said; “but the short walk will do you good, and the night-air willcool you.”

  She bade him good-night at the gate when they reached Bloomsbury Place,and she entered the house with her thoughts turning to Mollie. Molliehad been out, too, it seemed. When she went up-stairs to their bedroom,she found her there, standing before the dressing-table, still with herhat on, and looking in evident preoccupation at something she held inher hand. Hearing Aimée, she started and turned round, dropping her handat her side, but not in time to hide a suspicious glitter which caughther sister’s eye. Here was a worse state of affairs than ever. She hadsomething to hide, and she had made up her mind to hide it. She stood upas Aimée approached, looking excited and guilty, but still half-defiant,her lovely head tossed back a little and an obstinate curve on her redlips. But the oracle was not to be daunted. She confronted her withquite a stern little air.

  “Mollie,” she began at once, without the least hesitation,--“Mollie, youhave just this minute hidden something from me, and I should n’t havethought you could do it.”

  Mollie put her closed hand behind her.

  “_If_ I am hiding something,” she answered, “I am not hiding it withoutreason.”

  “No,” returned Dame Prudence, severely, “you are not. You have a verygood reason, I am afraid. You are ashamed of yourself, and you know youare doing wrong. You have got a secret, which you are keeping from _me_,Mollie,” bridling a little in the prettiest way. “I didn’t think youwould keep a secret from _me_.”

  Mollie, very naturally, was overpowered. She looked a trifle ashamed ofherself, and the tears came into her eyes. She drew her hand from behindher back, and held it out with a half-pettish, half-timid gesture.

  “There!” she said; “if you must see it.”

  And there, on her pink palm, lay a shining opal ring.

  “And,” said Aimée, looking at it without offering to touch it, and thenlooking at her,--“and Mr. Gerald Chandos gave it to you?”

  “Yes, Mr. Gerald Chandos did,” trying to brave it out, but stillappearing the reverse of comfortable. “And you think it proper,” proceeded her inquisitor, “to accept such presents from a gentleman whocares nothing for you?”

  Care nothing for her! Mollie drew herself upright, with the air of aZenobia. She had had too few real love affairs not to take arms at onceat such an imputation cast upon her prowess.

  “He cares enough for me to want me to marry him,” she said, and thenstopped and looked as if she could have bitten her tongue off forbetraying her.

  Aimée sat down in the nearest chair and stared at her, as if she doubtedthe evidence of her senses.

  “To do what?” she demanded.

  There was no use in trying to conceal the truth any longer. Mollie sawthat much; and besides this, her feelings were becoming too strong forher from various causes. The afternoon had been an exciting one to her,too. So, all at once, so suddenly that Aimée was altogether unpreparedfor the outbreak, she gave way. The ring fell unheeded on to the carpet,slipped from her hand and rolled away, and the next instant she wentdown upon her knees, hiding her face on her arms on Aimée’s lap, andbegan to cry hysterically.

  “It--it is to be quite a secret,” she sobbed. “I would not tell anybodybut you, and I dare not tell you quite all, but he _has_ asked me tomarry him, Aimée, and I have--I have said yes.” And then she cried morethan ever, and caught Aimée’s hand, and clung to it with a desperate,childish grasp, as if she was frightened.

  It was very evident that she was frightened, too. All the newly assumedwomanliness was gone. It was the handsome, inexperienced, ignorantchild Mollie she had known all her life who was clinging to her, Aiméefelt,--the pretty, simple, thoughtless Mollie they had all admired andlaughed at, and teased and been fond of. She seemed to have become achild again all at once, and she was in trouble and desperate, it wasplain.

  “But the very idea!” exclaimed Aimée, inwardly; “the bare idea of herhaving the courage to engage herself to him!”

  “I never heard such a thing in my life,” she said, aloud. “Oh, Mollie!Mollie! what induced you to give him such a mad answer? You don’t carefor him.”

  “He--he would not take any other answer, and he is as nice as any oneelse,” shamefacedly. “He is nicer than Brown and the others, and--I dolike him--a little,” but a tiny shudder crept over her, and she held herlistener’s hand more tightly.

  “As nice as any one else!” echoed Aimée, indignantly. “Nicer than Brown!You ought to be in leading-strings!” with pathetic hopelessness. “Thatwas n’t your only reason, Mollie.”

  The hat with the short crimson feather had been unceremoniously pushedoff, and hung by its elastic upon Mollie’s neck; the pretty curly hairwas all crushed into a heap, and the flushed, tear-wet face was hiddenin the folds of Aimée’s dress. There was a charming, foolish, fancifulside to Mollie’s desperation, as there was to all her moods.

  “That was not your only reason,” repeated Aimée.

  One impetuous, unhappy little sob, and the poor simple child confessedagainst her will.

  “Nobody--nobody else cared for me!” she cried.

  “Nobody?” said Aimée; and then, making up her mind to go to the point atonce, she said, “Does ‘nobody’ mean that Ralph Gowan did not, Mollie?”

  The clinging hand was snatched away, and the child quite writhed.

  “I hate Ralph Gowan!” she cried. “I detest him! I wish--I wish--I _wish_I had never seen him! Why could n’t
he stay away among his own people?Nobody wanted him. Dolly doesn’t care for him, and Grif hates him. Whycould n’t he stay where he was?”

  There was no need to doubt after this, of course. Her love for RalphGowan had rendered her restless and despairing, and so she had workedout this innocent romance, intending to defend herself against him. Theheroines of her favorite novels married for money when they couldnot marry for love, and why should not she? Remember, she was onlyseventeen, and had been brought up in Vagabondia among people who didnot often regard consequences. Mr. Gerald Chandos was rich, made violentlove to her, and was ready to promise anything, it appeared,--not thatshe demanded much; the Lord Burleighs of her experience invariablyshowered jewels and equipages and fine raiment upon their brides withoutbeing asked. She would have thought it positive bliss to be tied toRalph Gowan for six or seven years without any earthly prospect of everbeing married; to have belonged to him as Dolly belonged to Grif, to sitin the parlor and listen to him while he made love to her as Grif madelove to Dolly, would have been quite enough steady-going rapture forher; but since that was out of the question, Mr. Gerald Chandos anddiamonds and a carriage would have to fill up the blank.

  But, of course, she did not say this to Aimée. In fact, after her firstburst of excitement subsided, Aimée could not gain much from her. Shecried a little more, and then seemed vexed with herself, and tried tocool down, and at last so far succeeded that she sat up and pushed hertangled hair from her wet, hot face, and began to search for the ring.

  “It has got a diamond in the centre,” she said, trying to speakindifferently. “I don’t believe you looked at it. The opals aresplendid, too.”

  “Are you going to wear it?” asked Aimée.

  She colored up to her forehead. “No, I am not,” she answered. “I shouldhave worn it before if I had intended to let people see it. I told youit was a secret. I have had this ring three or four days.”

  “Why is it a secret?” demanded Dame Prudence. “I don’t believe insecrets,--particularly in secret engagements. Is n’t Phil to know?”

  She turned away to put the ring into its case.

  “Not yet,” she replied, pettishly. “Time enough when it can’t be helped.It is a secret, I tell you, and I don’t care about everybody’s talkingit over.”

  And she would say no more.