Part 35 (1/2)

”Find him! We cannot find him.”

”That remains to be proved,” he answered. ”Have you been to his lodgings?”

”Yes,” mournfully. ”And even to the office! He left his lodgings that very night, paid his bills, and drove away in a cab with his trunk.

Poor Grif! It was n't a very big trunk. He went to the office the next morning, and told Mr. Flynn he was going to leave London, and one of the clerks told Phil there was a 'row' between them. Mr. Flynn was angry because he had not given due notice of his intention. That is all we know.”

”And you have not the slightest clew beyond this?”

”Not the slightest. He spent all his spare time with Dolly, you know; so there is not even any place of resort, or club, or anything, where we might go to make inquiries about him.”

Gowan's countenance fell. He felt the girl's distress keenly, apart from his own pain.

”The whole affair seems very much against us,” he said; ”but he may--I say he _may_ be in London still. I am inclined to believe he is myself.

When the first pa.s.sion of excitement was over, he would find himself weaker than he fancied he was. It would not be so easy to cut himself off from the old life altogether. He would long so inexpressibly to see Dolly again that he could not tear himself away. I think we may be a.s.sured that even if he is not in London, at least he has not left England.”

”That was what I have been afraid of,” said Aimee, ”that he might have left England altogether.”

”I cannot think he has,” Gowan returned.

They were both silent for a moment. Aimee sat twisting Miss MacDowlas's letter in her fingers, fresh tears gathering in her eyes.

”It is all the harder to bear,” she said next, ”because Dolly has always seemed so much of a _reality_ to us. If she had been a pale, ethereal sort of girl, it might not seem such a shock; but she never was. She even used to say she could not bear those frail, ethereal people in books, who were always dying and saying touching things just at the proper time, and who knew exactly when to call up their agonized friends to their bedside to see how pathetically and decorously they made their exit. Oh, my poor darling! To think that she should be fading away and dying just in the same way! I cannot make it seem real. I cannot think of her without her color, and her jokes, and her bits of acting, and her little vanities. She will not be our Dolly at all if they have left her.

There is a dress of hers up-stairs now,--a dress she couldn't bear.

And I remember so well how she lost her temper when she was making it, because it would n't fit. And when I went into the parlor she was crying over it, and Grif was trying so hard to console her that at last she laughed. I can see her now, with the tears in her eyes, looking half-vexed and half-comforted. And Tod, too,--how fond she was of Tod, and how proud of him! Ah, Tod,” in a fresh burst, ”when you grow up, the daisies may have been growing for many a year over poor little Aunt Dolly, and you will have forgotten her quite.”

”You must not look at the matter in that desponding way,” said Gowan, quite unsteadily. ”We must hope for the best, and do what we can. You may rely upon me to exert myself to the utmost. If we succeed in finding Donne I am sure that he will do the rest. Perhaps, next summer Vagabondia will be as bright as ever,--nay, even brighter than it has been before.”

All his sympathies were enlisted, and, hopeless as the task seemed, he had determined to make strenuous efforts to trace this lost lover. Men had concealed themselves from their friends, in the world of London, often before, and this, he felt sure, Griffith Donne was doing; and since this poor little impa.s.sioned, much-tried Dolly was dying in spite of herself for Griffith Donne's sake, and seemed only to be saved by his presence, he must even set himself the task of bringing him to light and clearing up this miserable misunderstanding. Having been Dolly Crewe's lover, he was still generous enough to wish to prove himself her friend; yes, and even her luckier lover's friend, though he winced a trifle at the thought. Accordingly, he left the house that night with his mind full of half-formed plans, both feasible and otherwise.

During the remainder of that week he did not call at Bloomsbury Place again, but at the beginning of the next he made his appearance, bringing with him a piece of news which excited Aimee terribly.

”I know I shall startle you,” he said, the moment they were alone together, ”but you can scarcely be more startled than I was myself. I have been on the lookout constantly, but I did not expect to be rewarded by success so soon. Indeed, as it is, it has been entirely a matter of chance. It is as I felt sure it would be. Donne is in London still.

I know that much, though that is all I have learned as yet. Late last night I caught a glimpse--only a glimpse--of him hurrying through a by-street. I almost fancied he had seen me and was determined to get out of the way.”

”The pretty English girl,” said the guests at the inn, ”comes down no longer to the _table d'hote!_” ”The pretty English girl,” remarked the wiseacres, ”does not even drive out on these days, and the doctor calls every morning to see her.”

”And sometimes,” added one of the wisest, ”again in the evening.”

”Consumption,” observed another.

”Plainly consumption,” nodding significantly. ”These English frauleins are so often consumptive,” commented a third. ”It is astonis.h.i.+ng to remark how many come to 'try Switzerland,' as they say.”

”And die?”

”And die,--as this one will.”

”Poor little thing!” with a sigh and a pitying shrug of the shoulders.

And in the meantime up-stairs the basket chair had been taken away from the window, and a large-cus.h.i.+oned, chintz-covered couch had been pushed into its place, and Dolly lay upon it. But luxurious as her couch was, and balmy as the air was, coming through the widely opened window, she did not find much rest. The fact was, she was past rest by this time, she was too weak to rest. The hot days tried her, and her sleepless nights undermined even her last feeble relic of strength. Sometimes during the day she felt that she could not lie propped up on the pillows a moment longer; but when she tried to stand or sit up she was glad to drop back again into the old place. She lost her breath fearfully soon,--the least exertion left her panting.