Part 29 (2/2)

In a few minutes she returned. ”She has taken it,” she said. ”And now you had better go to bed, Dolly.”

But Dolly's color had faded again, and she was resting her forehead upon her hands, with a heavy, anxious, worn look, which spoke of sudden reaction. She lifted her face with a half-absent air.

”I hope it will be in time for to-night's post,” she said. ”Do you think it will?”

”I am not quite sure, but I hope so. You must come to bed, Dolly.”

She got up without saying more, and followed her out into the hall, but at the foot of the staircase she stopped. ”I have not seen Tod,” she said. ”Let us go into 'Toinette's room and ask her to let us have him to-night. We can carry him up-stairs without wakening him. I have done it many a time. I should like to have him in my arms to-night.”

So they turned into Mrs. Phil's room, and found that handsome young matron sitting in her dressing-gown before the fire, brus.h.i.+ng out her great dark mantle of hair.

”Don't waken Tod,” she cried out, as usual; and then when she saw Dolly she broke into a whispered volley of wondering questions. Where in the world had she been? What had she been doing with herself until such an hour? Where was Grif? Was n't he awfully vexed? What had he said when she came in? All of which inquiries the two parried as best they might.

As to Tod--well, Tod turned her thoughts in another direction. He was a beauty, and a king, and a darling, and he was growing sweeter and brighter every day,--which comments, by the way, were always the first made upon the subject of the immortal Tod. He was so amiable, too, and so clever and so little trouble. He went to sleep in his crib every night at seven, and never awakened until morning. Aunt Dolly might look at him now with those two precious middle fingers in his little mouth.

And Aunt Dolly did look at him, lifting the cover slightly, and bending over him as he lay there making a deep dent in his small, plump pillow,--a very king of babies, soft and round and warm, the white lids drooped and fast closed over his dark eyes, their long fringes making a faint shadow on his fair, smooth baby cheeks, the two fingers in his sweet mouth, the round, cleft chin turned up, the firm, tiny white pillar of a throat bare.

”Oh, my bonny baby!” cried Dolly, the words rising from the bottom of her heart, ”how fair and sweet you are!”

They managed to persuade Mrs. Phil to allow them to take possession of him for the night; and when they went up-stairs Dolly carried him, folded warmly in his downy blanket, and held close and tenderly in her arms.

”Aunt Dolly's precious!” Aimee heard her whispering to him as she gave him a last soft good-night kiss before they fell asleep. ”Aunt Dolly's comfort! Everything is not gone so long as he is left.”

But she evidently pa.s.sed a restless night. When Aimee awakened in the morning she found her standing by the bedside, dressed and looking colorless and heavy-eyed.

”I never was so glad to see morning in my life,” she said. ”I thought the day would never break. I--I wonder how long it will be before Grif will be reading his letter?”

”He may get it before nine o'clock,” answered Aimee; ”but don't trouble about it, or the day will seem twice as long. Take Tod down-stairs and wash and dress him. It will give you something else to think of.”

The wise one herself had not slept well. Truth to say, she was troubled about more matters than one. She was troubled to account for the meaning of Dolly's absence with Gowan. Even in her excitement, Dolly had not felt the secret quite her own, and had only given a skeleton explanation of the true state of affairs.

”It was something about Mollie and Gerald Chan-dos,” she had said; ”and if I had not gone it would have been worse than death to Mollie. Don't ask me to tell you exactly what it was, because I can't. Perhaps Mollie will explain herself before many days are over. She always tells you everything, you know. But it was no real fault of here; she was silly, but not wicked, and she is safe from Gerald Chandos now forever. And _I_ saved her, Aimee.”

And so the wise one had lain awake and thought of all sorts of possible and impossible escapades. But as she was dressing herself this morning, the truth flashed upon her, though it was scarcely the whole truth.

”She was going to elope with him,” she exclaimed all at once; ”_that_ was what she was going to do. Oh, Mollie, Mollie, what a romantic goose you are!”

And having reached this solution, she closed her small, determined mouth in discreet silence, resolving to wait for Mollie's confession, which she knew was sure to come sooner or later. As to Mollie herself, she came down subdued and silent. She had slept off the effects of her first shock, but had by no means forgotten it. She would never forget it, poor child, as long as she lived, and she was so grateful to find herself safe in the shabby rooms again, that she had very little to say; and since she was in so novel a mood, the members of the family who were not in the secret decided that her headache must have been a very severe one indeed.

”Don't say anything to her about Grif,” Dolly cautioned Aimee, ”it would only trouble her.” And so the morning pa.s.sed; but even at twelve o'clock there was no Grif, and Dolly began to grow restless and walk to and fro from the window to the hearth at very short intervals. Dinner-hour arrived, too, but still no arrival; and Dolly sat at the table, among them, eating nothing and saying little enough. How could she talk when every step upon the pavement set her heart bounding? When dinner was over and Phil had gone back to the studio, she looked so helpless and woe-begone that Aimee felt constrained to comfort her.

”It may have been delayed,” she whispered to her, ”or he may have left the house earlier than usual, and so won't see it until to-night. He will be here to-night, Dolly, depend upon it.”

And so they waited. Ah, how that window was watched that afternoon! How often Dolly started from her chair and ran to look out, half suffocated by her heart-beatings! But it was of no avail. As twilight came on she took her station before it, and knelt upon the carpet for an hour watching; but in the end she turned away all at once, and, running to the fire again, caught Tod up in her arms, and startled Aimee by bursting into a pa.s.sion of tears.

”Oh, Tod!” she sobbed, ”he is not coming! He will never come again,--he has left us forever! Oh, Tod, love poor Aunt Dolly, darling.” And she hid her face on the little fellow's shoulder, crying piteously.

She did not go to the window again. When she was calmer, she remained on her chair, colorless and exhausted, but clinging to Tod still in a queer pathetic way, and letting him pull at her collar and her ribbons and her hair. The touch of his relentless baby hands and his pretty, tyrannical, restless ways seemed to help her a little and half distract her thoughts.

She became quieter and quieter as the evening waned; indeed, she was so quiet that Aimee wondered. She was strangely pale; but she did not start when footsteps were heard on the street, and she ceased turning toward the door when it opened.

”He--he may come in the morning,” Aimee faltered as they went up-stairs to bed.