Part 30 (1/2)
”No, he will not,” she answered her, quite steadily. ”It will be as I said it would,--he will never come again.”
But when they reached their room, the unnatural, strained quiet gave way, and she flung herself upon the bed, sobbing and fighting against just the hysterical suffering which had conquered her the night before.
It was the very ghost of the old indomitable Dolly who rose the next morning. Her hands shook as she dressed her hair, and there were shadows under her eyes. But she must go back to Brabazon Lodge, notwithstanding.
”I can say I have a nervous headache,” she said to Aimee. ”Nervous headaches are useful things.”
”If a letter comes,” said Aimee, ”I will bring it to you myself.”
The girl turned toward her suddenly, her eyes hard and bright and her mouth working.
”I have had my last letter,” she said. ”My last letters came to me when Grif laid that package upon the table. He has done with me.”
”Done with you?” cried Aimee, frightened by her manner. ”With _you_, Dolly?”
Then for the first time Dolly flushed scarlet to the very roots of her hair.
”Yes,” she said, ”he has done with me. If there had been half a chance that he would ever come near me again, the letter I wrote to him that night would have brought him. A word of it would have brought him,--the first word. But he is having his revenge by treating it with contempt.
He is showing me that it is too late, and that no humility on my part can touch him. I scarcely could have thought that of him,” dropping into a chair by the toilet-table and hiding her face in her hands.
”It is not like Grif to let me humble myself for nothing. And I did humble myself,--ah, how I did humble myself! That letter,--if you could have seen it, Aimee,--it was all on fire with love for him. I laid myself under his feet,--and he has trodden me down! Grif--Grif, it was n't like you,--it was n't worthy of you,--it was n't indeed!”
Her worst enemy would have felt herself avenged if she had heard the anguish in her voice. She was crushed to the earth under this last great blow of feeling that he had altered so far. Grif,--her whilom greatest help and comfort,--the best gift G.o.d had given her! Dear, old, tender, patient fellow! as she had been wont to call him in her fits of penitence.
Grif, whose arms had always been open to her at her best and at her worst, who had loved her and borne with her, and waited upon her and done her bidding since they were both little more than children. When had Grif ever turned from her before? Never. When 'had Grif ever been cold or unfaithful in word or deed? Never. When had he ever failed her?
Never--never--never--until now! And now that he had failed her at last, she felt that the bitter end had come. The end to everything,--to all the old hopes and dreams, to all the old sweet lovers' quarrels and meetings and partings, to all their clinging together, to all the volumes and volumes of love and trust that lay in the past, to all the world of simple bliss that lay still unrevealed in their lost future, to all the blessed old days when they had pictured to each other what that future was to be. It had all gone for nothing in the end. It must all have gone for nothing, when Grif--a new Grif--not her own true, stanch, patient darling--not her own old lover--could read her burning, tender, suffering words and pa.s.s them by without a word of answer. And with this weight of despair and pain upon her heart, she went back to the wearisome routine of Brabazon Lodge,--went back heavy with humiliation and misery which she scarcely realized,--went back suffering as no one who knew her--not even Grif himself--could ever have understood that it was possible for her to suffer. No innocent coquetries now, no spirit, no jests; for the present at least she had done with them, too.
”You are not in your usual spirits, my dear,” said Miss MacDowlas.
”No,” she answered, quietly, ”I am not.”
This state of affairs continued for four days, and then one morning, sitting at her sewing in the breakfast-room, she was startled almost beyond self-control by a servant's announcement that a visitor had arrived.
”One of your sisters, ma'am,” said the parlor-maid. ”Not the youngest, I think.”
She was in the room in two seconds, and flew to Aimee, trembling all over with excitement.
”Not a letter!” she cried, hysterically. ”It is n't a letter,--it can't be!” And she put her hand to her side and fairly panted.
The poor little wise one confronted her with something like fear. She could not bear to tell her the ill news she had come to break.
”Dolly, dear!” she said, ”please sit down; and--please don't look at me so. It isn't good news. I must tell you the truth; it is bad news, cruel news. Oh, don't look so!”
They were standing near the sofa, and Dolly gave one little moan, and sank down beside it.
”Cruel news!” she cried, throwing up her hand. ”Yes, I might have known that,--I might have known that it would be cruel, if it was news at all Every one is cruel,--the whole world is cruel; even Grif,--even Grif!”
Aimee burst into tears.