Part 31 (1/2)

As both Dolly and herself had expected, Mollie did not keep her secret from the oracle many weeks. It was too much for her to bear alone, and one night, in a fit of candor and remorse, she poured out everything from first to last, all her simple and unsophisticated dreams of grandeur, all her gullibility, all her danger,--everything, indeed, but the story of her pitiful little fancy for Ralph Gowan. She could not give that up, even to Aimee, though at the close of her confidence she was unable to help referring to him.

”And as to Mr. Gowan,” she said, ”how can I ever speak to him again!

but, perhaps, he would not speak to me. He must think I am wicked and bold and hardened--and bad,” with a fresh sob at every adjective. ”Oh, dear! oh, dear!” burying her face in Aimee's lap, ”if I had only stayed at home and been good, like you. He could have respected me, at least, couldn't he? And now--oh, what am I to do!”

Aimee could not help sighing. If she only _had_ stayed at home, how much happier they all might have been! But she had promised Dolly not to add to her unhappiness by hinting at the truth, so she kept her own counsel.

It was fully three months before they saw Ralph Gowan again. He had gone on the Continent, they heard. A feeling of delicacy had prompted the journey. As long as he remained in London, he could scarcely drop out of his old friendly position at Bloomsbury Place, and he felt that for a while at least Mollie would scarcely find it easy to-face him. So he went away and rambled about until he thought she would have time to get over her first embarra.s.sment.

But at the end of the three months he came back, and one afternoon surprised them all by appearing amongst them again. Mollie, sitting perseveringly at work over her penitential sewing, shrank a little, and dropped her eyelids when he came in, but she managed to behave with creditable evenness of manner after all, and the rest welcomed him warmly.

”I have been to Brabazon Lodge,” he said at length to Aimee. ”I spent Monday evening there, and was startled at the change I found in your sister. I did not know she was ill.”

Aimee started herself, and looked up at him with a frightened face.

”Ill!” she said. ”Did you say ill?”

It was his turn to be surprised then.

”I thought her looking ill,” he answered. ”She seemed to me to be both paler and thinner. But you must not let me alarm you,--I thought, of course, that you would know.”

”She has never mentioned it in her letters,” Aimee said. ”And she has not been home for three months, so we have not seen her.”

”Don't let me give you a false impression,” returned Gowan, eagerly.

”She seemed in excellent spirits, and was quite her old self; indeed, I scarcely should imagine that she herself placed sufficient stress upon the state of her health. She insisted that she was well when I spoke to her about it.”

”I am very glad you told me,” answered Aimee. ”She is too indifferent sometimes. I am afraid she would not have let us know. I thank you, very much.”

He had other thanks before he left the house. As he was going out, Mollie, in her character of porteress, opened the hall door for him, and, having opened it, stood there with Tod's new garment half concealed, a pair of timid eyes uplifted to his face, a small, trembling, feverish hand held out.

”Mr. Gowan,” she said, in a low, fluttering voice. ”Oh, if you please--”

He took the little hot hand, feeling some tender remorse for not having tried to draw her out more and help her out of her painful shyness and restraint.

”What is it, Mollie?” he asked.

”I want--I want,” fluttering all over,--”I want to thank you better than I did that--that dreadful night. I was so frightened I could scarcely understand. I understand more--now--and I want to tell you how grateful I am--and how grateful I shall be until I die--and I want to ask you to try not to think I was very wicked. I did not mean to be wicked--I was only vain and silly, and I thought it would be such a grand thing to--to have plenty of new dresses,” hanging her sweet, humble face, ”and to wear diamonds, and be Lady Chandos, if--if Mr. Chandos came into the t.i.tle. Of course that was wicked, but it was n't--I was n't as bad as I seemed. I was so vain that--that I was quite sure he loved me, and would be very glad if I married him. He always said he would.” And the tears rolled fast down her cheeks.

”Poor Mollie!” said Gowan, patting the trembling hand as if it had been a baby's. ”Poor child!”

”But,” Mollie struggled on, penitently, ”I shall never be so foolish again. And I am going to try to be good--like Aimee. I am learning to mend things; and I am beginning to make things for Tod. This,” holding up her work as proof, ”is a dress for him. It is n't very well done,”

with innocent dubiousness; ”but Aimee says I am improving. And so, if you please, would you be so kind as not to think quite so badly of me?”

It was all so humble and pretty and remorseful that he was quite touched by it. That old temptation to kiss and console her made it quite dangerous for him to linger. She was such a lovable sight with her tear-wet cheeks, and that dubious but faithfully worked-at garment of Tod's in her hand.

”Mollie,” he said, ”will you believe what I say to you?”

”Oh, yes!” eagerly.