Part 28 (1/2)

They had settled what to do beforehand. At the corner of the street Gowan was to leave them, and the two girls were to go in together, Mollie making her way at once to her room upon pretext of headache. A night's rest would restore her self-control, and by the next morning she would be calm enough to face the rest, and so her wild escapade would end without risk of comment if she was sufficiently discreet to keep her own counsel. At present she was too thoroughly upset and frightened even to feel humiliation.

”Nearly half-past nine,” said Gowan, as he a.s.sisted them to descend to the pavement at their journey's end.

The light from an adjacent lamp showed him that the face under Dolly's hat was very pale and excited, and her eyes were s.h.i.+ning and large with repressed tears as she gave him her hand.

”I cannot find words to thank you just yet,” she said, low and hurriedly. ”I wish I could; but--you know what you have helped me to save Mollie from to-night, and so you know what my grat.i.tude must be.

The next time I see you, perhaps, I shall be able to say what I wish, but now I can only say goodnight, and--oh, G.o.d bless you!” And the little hand fairly wrung his.

Mollie shook hands with him, trembling and almost reluctantly. She was pale, too, and her head drooped as if it would nevermore regain the old trick of wilful, regal carriage.

”You have been very kind to take so much trouble,” she said. ”You were kinder than I deserved,--both of you.”

”Now,” said Dolly, when he sprang into the cab, and they turned away together,--”now for getting into the house as quietly as possible. No,”

trying to speak cheerily, and as if their position was no great matter, ”you must n't tremble, Mollie, and you mustn't cry. It is all over now, and everything is as commonplace and easy to manage as can be. You have been out, and have got the headache, and are going to bed. That is all. All the rest we must forget. Nothing but a headache, Mollie, and a headache is not much, so we won't fret about it. If it had been a heartache, and sin and shame and sorrow--but it isn't. But, Mollie,”

they had already reached the house then, and stood upon the steps, and she turned to the girl and put a hand on each of her shoulders, speaking tremulously, ”when you go up-stairs, kneel down by your bedside and say your prayers, and thank G.o.d that it is n't,--thank G.o.d that it is n't, with all your heart and soul.” And she kissed her cheek softly just as they heard Aimee coming down the hall to open the door.

”Dolly!” she exclaimed when she saw them, ”where have you been? Griffith has been here since five, and now he is out looking for you. I had given you up entirely, but he would not. He fancied you had been delayed by something.”

”I have been delayed by something,” said Dolly, her heart failing her again. ”And here is Mollie, with the headache. You had better go to bed, Mollie. How long is it since Grif left the house?”

”Scarcely ten minutes,” was the answer. ”It is a wonder you did not meet him. Oh, Dolly!” ominously, ”how unlucky you are!”

Dolly quite choked in her effort to be decently composed in manner.

”I _am_ unlucky,” she said; and without saying more, she made her way into the parlor.

She took her hat off there and tossed it on the sofa, utterly regardless of consequences, and then dropped into her chair and looked round the room. It did not look as she had pictured it earlier in the day. Its cheerfulness was gone, and it looked simply desolate. The fire had sunk low in the grate, and the hearth was strewn with dead ashes;--somehow or other, everything seemed chilled and comfortless. She was too late for the brightness and warmth,--a few hours before it had been bright and warm, and Grif had been there waiting for her. Where was he now?

She dropped her face on the arm of her chair with a sob of disappointed feeling and foreboding. What if he had seen them leave Ralph Gowan, and had gone home!

”It's too bad!” she cried. ”It is cruel! I can't bear it! Oh, Grif, _do_ come!” And her tears fell thick and fast.

Ten minutes later she started up with a little cry of joy and relief.

That was his footstep upon the pavement, and before he had time to ring she was at the door. She could scarcely speak to him in her excitement.

”Oh, Grif!” she said; ”Grif--darling!”

But he did not offer to touch her, and strode past her outstretched hands.

”Come into this room with me,” he said, hoa.r.s.ely; and the simple sound of his voice struck her to the heart like a blow.

She followed him, trembling, and when they stood in the light, and she saw his deathly, pa.s.sion-wrung face, her hand crept up to her side and pressed against it. 9

He had a package in his hand,--a package of letters,--and he laid them down on the table.

”I have been home for these,” he said. ”Your letters,--I have brought them back to you.”