Vagabondia Read online

  CHAPTER XIX. ~ ROSE COLOR.

  OF course she recovered. What else could she do? If a man is dying forwant of bread and you give him bread enough and to spare, he will regainstrength and life, will he not? And so with Dolly. Having found Grif,she had nothing to die for and so much to live for, that she lived. Itseemed, too, that even if she had been inclined to die, Grif would haveheld her fast to earth. It was worse than useless to attempt to deludehim into leaving her side, even for an hour; he hung over the invalid’scouch, in such an anguish of half-despairing anxiety that the hearts ofthe unceremoniously deposed nurses were quite touched. He watched everychange in Dolly’s face, every brightening or fading tint in her cheek,every glance of her eyes; he followed her every movement. If she wastired of her posture, he could raise her or lay her down and settle hercushions as no one else could; if she was strong enough to listen, hecould talk to her; if she was too weak, he could be silent.

  But naturally there was much to talk about. Not that the period ofhis absence had been a very eventful one. It was as Ralph Gowan hadfancied,--he had been living quietly enough in a secluded Londonstreet during the whole of the time; but Dolly found the history ofhis self-banishment both interesting and soul-moving. The story of hismiseries brought the tears into her eyes, and his picture of what he hadsuffered on that unhappy night, when he had rushed out of the houseand left her insensible upon the sofa, made her cling to his handconvulsively and sob outright.

  “I can scarcely believe you are here,--quite safe,” she would say; “youmight have killed yourself.”

  And indeed he had been in no small danger of so doing.

  Among all this, however, there was one bit of brightness,--a wonderfulpiece of news he told her that very day after his return. Fortunehad, with her usual caprice, condescended to smile upon him at last.Incredible as it appeared, he had “got into something,” and this“something” was actually remunerative,--reasonably remunerative, ifnot extravagantly so. Four hundred a year would pay the rent of thefigurative house in Putney or elsewhere, and buy the green sofa andappurtenances, at least. Dolly could scarcely believe it, and, indeed,he scarcely believed it himself.

  “It seemed as if, when I had lost all else, this came to add to thebitterness of the loss,” he said. “I am afraid I was far from being asgrateful, at first, as I ought to have been. I could only remember howhappy such luck would have made us both if it had only come a year orso earlier. And the very day I got the place I passed the upholsterer’swhere the parlor furniture was,--green sofa and all. And I went homewith the firm intention of blowing my brains out. The only thing thatsaved me that day was the fact that my landlady met me at the door witha miserable story about her troubles and her taxes, and by the time Ihad listened for half an hour, and done something she wanted done, I hadcooled down a little, though I was wretched enough.”

  “The ‘something’ was paying the taxes, was n’t it?” questioned Dolly.

  “Something of that kind,” admitted Griffith.

  “Ah,” said Dolly, “I thought so.”

  Very naturally Griffith felt some slight embarrassment on encounteringMiss MacDowlas, having a rather unpleasant recollection of variousincidents of the past. But Miss Berenice faced the matter in a differentmanner and with her usual decision of character. She had made up hermind to receive Griffith Donne as a respectable fact, and then, throughDolly’s eloquence, she had learned to regard him with even a sort ofaffection,--a vague affection, of course, at the outset, but one whichwould ripen with time. Thus she rather surprised him by confronting himupon an entirely new ground. She was cordial and amiable, and onthe first opportunity she explained her change of feeling with greatopenness.

  “I have heard so much of you from Dolly,” she said, “that I am convincedI have known nothing of you before. I hope we shall be better friends. Iam very fond of Dolly. I wish I had known her three or four years ago.”

  And there was such a softened tenderness in her thin, unpromising face,that from thenceforward Griffith’s doubts were removed and his opinionaltered, as hers had done. The woman who had loved and pitied Dollywhen she so sorely needed pity and love, must be worthy of gratitude andaffection.

  Phil and ‘Toinette and Mollie arriving, in the deepest affliction, toreceive Dolly’s last farewell, were rather startled by the turn affairshad taken. Changed as she was, the face she turned to greet them was notthe face of a dying girl. She was deplorably pale and shrunken and thin,but the light of life was in her eyes and a new ring was in her voice.She had vitality enough to recognize fresh charms in Tod, and spiritenough to make a few jokes.

  “She won’t die,” commented Phil to his wife when they retired to theirroom.

  “No,” said Mrs. Phil, discreetly, “it is not likely, now Grif has comeback. But it won’t do to waste the journey, Phil, so we may as well stayawhile. We have not been anywhere out of London this summer.”

  Accordingly, with their usual genius for utilizing all things, theyprolonged their visit and made it into a kind of family festival; andsince their anxiety on Dolly’s behalf was at an end, they managedto enjoy it heartily. They walked here, and rode there, and exploredunheard-of points and places; they kept the quiet people in the quiethotel in a constant state of pleasant ferment with their good spiritsand unceremonious friendliness. Mollie and Aimée and Mrs. Phil excitedsuch general admiration that when they made their appearance at the_table d’hôte_ there was a visible stir and brightening, and Dollywas so constantly inquired after, that there were serious thoughtsentertained of issuing hourly bulletins. The reaction of high spiritsafter their fears was something exhilarating even to beholders.

  And while they enjoyed themselves, and explored, and instituted a highcarnival of innocent rejoicing, Dolly directed all her energies to thetask of getting well and filling Grif’s soul with hope and bliss. Assoon as she had fully recovered they were to be married,--not a day, notan hour, longer would Grif consent to wait. His only trouble was thatshe would not be strong enough to superintend the purchase of the greensofa and appurtenances. Aimée had, however, proved his rock of refugeas usual They were to return to London together and make the necessarypreparations, and then the wedding was to take place in Geneva, and thebride would be carried home in triumph.

  “We have been so long in travelling toward the little house at Putneythat it will be the nicest bridal tour we could have,” said Dolly.

  Then, of course, came some pleasant excitement in connection with thetrousseau, in which everybody was involved. The modest hotel had neverbefore been in such a state of mind through secret preparations, asit was when Dolly was well enough to sit up and walk about and choosepatterns. Her instinct of interest in worldly vanities sustained thatyoung person marvellously. When Grif and Aimée had returned to Londonshe found herself well enough to give lengthy audiences to Mrs. Phil,who, with Miss MacDowlas, had taken the business of purchasing in hand,and to discuss fabrics and fashions by the hour. She remembered Grifsenthusiasm on the subject of her toilets, and she was wholly ruled bya secret and laudable ambition to render herself as irresistible aspossible. She exercised to its utmost her inventive genius, and layawake at night to devise simple but coquettish feminine snares of attireto delight and bewilder him in the future.

  She might well progress rapidly toward health and strength. By the timethe house was ready for her reception she was well enough to drive outand explore with the rest, though she looked frail and unsubstantial bycontrast with Mollie’s bloom and handsome Mrs. Phil’s grand curves. Shewas gaining flesh and color every day, but the slender throat and wristsand transparent hands were a bitter reproach to Grif even then, and itwould be many weeks before she could again indulge in that old harmlessvanity in her dimples and smooth roundness of form.

  Mollie mourned over her long, in secret, and, indeed, was so heart-wrungby the sight of the change she found in her, that the very day of herarrival had not drawn to its close before she burst upon her with aremorseful appeal for forgiveness.


  “But even if you forgive me I shall not forgive myself,” she said. “Ishall never forget that dreadful night when I found out that it was allmy fault, and that you had borne everything without telling me. If--ifit had not been for--for Mr. Gowan, Dolly, I think I should have died.”

  “If it had not been for whom?” asked Dolly.

  “Mr. Gowan,” answered Miss Mollie, dropping her eyes, her very throatdyed with guilty blushes.

  “Ah!” said Dolly. “And what did Mr. Gowan do, Mollie?”

  “He was very kind--and sympathizing,” replied Mollie.

  “He always is sympathizing,” looking at her with affectionateshrewdness. “He is very nice, is n’t he, Mollie?”

  “Yes,” said Mollie. “Very nice, indeed.”

  “And I dare say you were so frightened and wretched that you cried?”

  “Yes,” confessed the abashed catechised.

  “I thought so.” And then, conjuring up in her mind’s eye a picture ofMollie, heart-broken, appealing and in tears, beauteous, piteous, andgrief-abandoned, she added, with tender impulsiveness, “I don’t wonderthat he sympathized with you, Mollie.”

  It revealed itself shortly afterward that his sympathy had not confineditself to the night Mollie called “dreadful.” Since that night he hadbeen a frequent visitor at Bloomsbury Place,--as frequent a visitor ashe had been in the days when Dolly had been wont so to entertain him.

  A week after the return of Aimée and Grif from London, there fell againupon the modest hotel a hush; but it was not the hush of sympatheticsilence which had fallen upon it before,--it was merely a sort ofreaction after a slight excitement. The pretty English girl had, toevery one’s wonder, suddenly returned to earth and had been married!The wisest were bewildered, but such was the fact, nevertheless; nobodycould exactly comprehend, but who could deny it? It was a mystery,indeed, until one day, some time after, a usually phlegmatic matronwas struck with an idea, and accordingly propounded to her friends asomewhat vaguely expressed problem.

  “After the appearance of the lover one heard no more that she wasdying?”

  “Just so.”

  “Perhaps the lover had something to do with the matter?”, “Ah!”

  “Perhaps she was dying for him, and his coming cured her?”

  “Exactly. That must have been the case.”

  And thenceforth the matter was deemed settled. However, the gay,light-hearted party of English had taken their departure,--the friendlyyoung artist who sketched and smoked and enjoyed himself; his handsomeyoung wife, who sketched and played with her handsome child, and enjoyed_herself_; the beautiful younger sister, who blushed and was charminglybashful, but enjoyed herself; the fair little saint with thegrave youthful face, who took care of them all, and yet enjoyed_herself_,--the lover, the elder lady, the guest who came to begroomsman, the bride,--they were all gone at last, and their absence wasthe cause of the hush of which I speak.

  There had been a wedding,--a joyous, light-hearted wedding, in whichthe bride had looked pretty and flower-like and ethereal,--a fragilecreature enough in her white dress and under her white veil, but adelightfully happy creature, notwithstanding,--in which the bridegroomhad been plainly filled with chivalric tenderness and bliss,--in whichthe two sisters had been charming beyond measure, and the awkward,affectionate girl friend from the seminary had blushed herself into ahigh fever. There could not have been a more prettily orthodox wedding,said the beholders. Somehow its glow of young romance touched people, itwas so evident that the young couple were fond of each other, and happyand hopeful. There were those who, seeing it solemnized in the smallchurch, shed a few tears, they knew not why, when Grif lifted Dolly’sveil and kissed her without a word.

  “It is all rose color to them,” said one of these soft-hearted ones,apologetically, to her neighbor.

  Rose color! I should think it was.

  But if it was all rose color then, what was it that first evening theyspent at home,--in their own home, in the little house which was sobright and pretty that it seemed more like a dream than a reality?What color did life look when Grif led Dolly across the threshold, halftrembling himself for very joy? What color did it look when he shut thedoor of the little parlor, and, turning round, went to her and foldedher in his arms close to his beating heart?

  Rose color! It was golden and more than golden! And yet, for the firstminute, Dolly could not speak, and the next she laid her cheek in herfavorite place, on the lapel of Grif’s coat, and burst into a greatgush of soft, warm tears,--tears without a touch of any other element,however, than love and happiness.

  “_Home_, Grif!” she said.

  He was quite pale and he had almost lost his voice, too, but he managedto answer her, unsteadily.

  “Yes, Dolly,” he said; “home!” And he stroked the bright hair upon hisbreast, with a world of meaning in his touch.

  “Do you think,” she said next, “that I am good enough and wise enough totake care of it, and to take care of _you_, Grif?”

  “Do you think,” he said, “that I am good enough and wise enough to takecare of _you_?”

  She lifted up her face and kissed him.

  “We love each other,” she whispered, “we trust each other, and so wecan help each other, and God will help us both. Ah, Grif, how bright andsweet life is!”

  And she scarcely knew, tender little soul, that instead of “life” sheshould have said “love.”

  There we will leave them both, merely hinting at the festivities thatfollowed,--merely hinting at the rejoicings at Bloomsbury Place, thegatherings at Brabazon Lodge, and the grand family reception at thehouse of the bride,--a reception at which Dolly shone forth with renewedsplendor, presiding over a gorgeous silver tea-service, which was oneof Miss MacDowlas’s many gifts, dispensing tea and coffee with thedeportment of a housekeeper of many years’ standing, and utterlydistracting Grif with her matronly airs and graces.

  Vagabondia was itself again in these days, but it was turning itsbrighter side outward. Phil was winning success, too, his position inthe world of art was becoming secured, and Bloomsbury Place was to betouched up and refurnished gradually. Aimée had promised to make herhome with Dolly until such time as her sweet little saint’s face wonher a home of her own. Miss MacDowlas had been adopted into the familycircle, and was conscious of being happier than she had ever felt sinceher long-past youth slipped from her grasp. Tod’s teeth were “through,” as Mrs. Phil phrased it, and convulsions had not supervened, to theecstasy of his anxious admirers. And Mollie,--well, Mollie waltzed withRalph Gowan again on the night of Dolly’s reception, and when the dancewas at an end, she went and seated herself near her hostess upon thegreen sofa--it was a green sofa, though a far more luxurious one thanDolly and Grif had ever dared to set their hearts upon in the oldendays.

  “Dolly,” she said, blushing for the last time in this history of mine,and looking down at her bouquet of waxen-white camellias and greenleaves,--“Dolly, I suppose Aimée has told you that I am engagedto--to--”

  “To Mr. Gowan,” suggested Dolly.

  “Yes,” answered Mollie, “to Mr. Gowan.”