Part 29 (1/2)

gasping and sobbing, ”it is fate. Fate is against us,--it always was against us. I think G.o.d is against us; and oh, how can He be? He might pity us,--we tried so hard and loved each other so much. We did n't ask for anything but each other,--we did n't want anything but that we might be allowed to cling together all our lives and work and help each other.

Oh, Grif, my darling,--oh, Grif, my dear, my dear!” And the sobs rising again and conquering her were such an agony that Aimee caught her in her arms.

”Dolly,” she said, ”you must not, you must not, indeed. You will die, you can't bear it.”

”No,” she wailed, ”I can't bear it,--that is what it is. I can't bear it. It is too hard to bear. But there is no one to help me,--G.o.d won't.

He does not care for us, or He would have given us just one little crumb out of all He has to give. What can a poor helpless girl be to Him? He is too high and great to care for our poor little powerless griefs. Oh, how wicked I am!” in a fresh burst. ”See how I rebel at the first real blow. It is because I am so wicked, perhaps, that all has been taken from me,--all I had in the world. It is because I loved Grif best.

I have read in books that it was always so. Oh, why is it? I can't understand it.. It seems cruel,--yes, it does seem cruel,--as cruel as death, to give him to me only that I might suffer when he was taken away. Oh, Grif, my darling! Grif, my love, my dear!”

This over again and again, with wild, heart-broken weeping, until she was so worn out that she could cry no more, and lay upon Aimee's arm upon the cus.h.i.+on, white and exhausted, with heavy purple rings about her wearied, sunken eyes. It was not until then that Aimee heard the whole truth. She had only been able to guess at it before, and now, hearing the particulars, she could not help fearing the worst.

It was just as she had feared it would be; another blow had come upon him at the very time when he was least able to bear it, and it had been too much for him. But she could not reveal her forebodings to Dolly. She must comfort her and persuade her to hope for the best.

”You must go to bed, Dolly,” she said, ”and try to sleep, and in the morning everything will look different. He may come, you know,--it would be just like him to come before breakfast. But if he does not come--suppose,” hesitatingly,--”suppose I was to write to him, or--suppose you were to?”

She was half afraid that pride would rise against this plan, but she was mistaken. Seven years of love had mastered pride. Somehow or other, pride had never seemed to come between them in their little quarrels, each had always been too pa.s.sionately eager to concede, and too sure of being met with tenderest penitence. Dolly had always known too confidently that her first relenting word would touch Grifs heart, and Grif had always been sure that his first half-softened reproach would bring the girl to his arms in an impetuous burst of loving repentance.

No, it was scarcely likely that other people's scruples would keep them apart. So Dolly caught at the proposal almost eagerly.

”Yes,” she said, ”I will write and tell him how it was. It was not his fault, was it, Aimee? How could I have borne such a thing myself? It would have driven me wild, as it did him. It was not unreasonable at all that he should refuse to listen, in his first excitement, after he had waited all those hours and suffered such a disappointment. And then to see what he did. My poor boy! he was not to blame at all. Yes, yes,” feverishly, ”I will write to him and tell him. Suppose I write now--don't you think I had better do it now, and then he will get the letter in the morning, and he will be sure to come before dinner,--he will be sure to come, won't he?”

”He always did,” said Aimee.

”Always,” said Dolly. ”Indeed, I never had to write to him before to bring him. He always came without being written to. There never was any one like him for being tender and penitent. You always said so, Aimee.

And just think how often I have tried his patience! I sometimes wish I could help doing things,--flirting, you know, and making a joke of it.

He never flirted in his life, poor darling, and what right had I to do it? When he comes to-morrow I will tell him how sorry I am for everything, and I will promise to be better. I have not been half so good as he has. I wish I had. I should not have hurt him so often if I had.”

”You have been a little thoughtless sometimes,” said Aimee. ”Perhaps it _would_ have been better if you could have helped it.”

”A little thoughtless,” said Dolly, restlessly. ”I have been wickedly thoughtless sometimes. And I have made so many resolutions and broken them all. And I ought to have been doubly thoughtful, because he had so much to bear. If he had been prosperous and happy it would not have mattered half so much. But it was all my vanity. You don't know how vain I am, Aimee. I quite hate myself when I think of it. It is the wanting people to admire me,--everybody, men and women, and even children,--particularly among Lady Augusta's set, where there is a sort of fun in it. And then I flirt before I know; and then, of course, Grif cannot help seeing it. I wonder that he has borne with me so long.”

She was quite feverish in her anxiety to condemn herself and exculpate her lover. She did not droop her face against the pillow, but roused herself, turning toward Aimee, and talking fast and eagerly. A bright spot of color came out on either cheek, though for the rest she was pale enough. But to Aimee's far-seeing eyes there was something so forced and unnaturally strung in her sudden change of mood that she felt a touch of dread Suppose something should crush her newly formed hopes,--something terrible and unforeseen! She felt a chill strike her to the heart at the mere thought of such a possibility. She knew Dolly better than the rest of them did,--knew her highly strung temperament, and feared it, too.

She might be spirited and audacious and thoughtless, but a blow coming through Grif would crush her to the earth.

”You--you mustn't set your heart too much upon his getting the letter in the morning, Dolly,” she said. ”He might be away when it came, or--or twenty things, and he might not see it until night, but--”

”Well,” said Dolly, ”I will write it at once if you will give me the pen and ink. The earlier it is posted the earlier he will get it.”

She tried to rise then; but when she stood up her strength seemed to fail her, and she staggered and caught at Aimee's arm. But the next minute she laughed.

”How queer that one little faint should make me so weak!” she said. ”I am weak,--actually. I shall feel right enough when I sit down, though.”

She sat down at the table with her writing materials, and Aimee remained upon the sofa watching her. Her hand trembled when she wrote the first few lines, but she seemed to become steadier afterward, and her pen dashed over the paper without a pause for a few minutes. The spot of color on her cheeks faded and burned by turns,--sometimes it was gone, and again it was scarlet, and before the second page was finished tears were falling soft and fast. Once she even stopped to wipe them away, because they blinded her; but when she closed the envelope she did not look exactly unhappy, though her whole face was tremulous.

”He will come back,” she said, softly. ”He will come back when he reads this, I know. I wish it was to-morrow. To-morrow night he will be here, and we shall have our happy evening after all. I can excuse myself to Miss MacDowlas for another day.”

”Yes,” said Aimee, a trifle slowly, as she took _it_ from her hand. ”I will send Belinda out with it now.” And she carried it out of the room.