Part 37 (1/2)

”Yes,” sprang from her lips, without a second's hesitation. ”You have seen Grif.”

”I have seen Grif,” he answered. ”He is at the corner of the street now.

If I had attempted to speak to him he would have managed to avoid me; and because I knew that, I came here, hoping to find Aimee; but since Aimee is not here--”

”I can go,” she interrupted him, all a-tremble with eagerness. ”He will listen to me; he was fond of me, too, and I was fond of him. Oh! let me go now!”

That bright little scarlet shawl of Dolly's lay upon the sofa, and she s.n.a.t.c.hed it up with shaking hands and threw it over her head and shoulders.

”If I can speak to him once, he will listen,” she said; ”and if he listens, Dolly will be saved. She won't die if Grif comes back. She can't die if Grif comes back. Oh, Dolly, my darling, you saved me, and I am going to try to save you.”

She was out in the street in two minutes, standing on the pavement, looking up and down, and then she ran across to the other side. She kept close to the houses, so that she might be in their shadow, and a little sob broke from her as she hurried along,--a sob of joy and fear and excitement. At the end of the row of houses somebody was standing under the street lamp,--a man. Was it Grif,--or could Grif have gone even in this short time? Fate could never have been so cruel to him, to her, to them all, as to let him come so near and then go away without hearing that Dolly was lying at death's portals, and no one could save her but himself and the tender power of the sweet, old, much-tried love. Oh, no, no! It was Grif indeed; for as she neared the place where he stood, she saw his face in the lamp-light,--a grief-worn, pallid face, changed and haggard and desperate,--a sight that made her cry out aloud.

He had not seen her or even heard her. He stood there looking toward the house she had left, and seeing, as it seemed, nothing else. Only the darkness had hidden her from him. His eyes were fixed upon the dim light that burned in Dolly's window. She had not meant to speak until she stood close to him; but when she was within a few paces of him her excitement mastered her.

”Grif,” she cried out; ”Grif, is it you?”

And when he turned, with a great start, to look at her, she was upon him,--her hands outstretched, the light upon her face, the tears streaming down her cheeks,--sobbing aloud.

”Mollie,” he answered, ”is it _you?_” And she saw that he almost staggered.

She could not speak at first. She clung to his arm so tightly that he could scarcely have broken away from her if he had tried. But he did not try; it seemed as though her touch made him weak,--weaker than he had ever been before in his life. Beauty as she was, they had always thought her in some way like Dolly, and, just now, with Dolly's gay little scarlet shawl slipping away from her face, with the great grief in her imploring eyes, with that innocent appealing trick of the clinging hands, she might almost have been Dolly's self.

Try as he might, he could not regain his self-control. He was sheerly powerless before her.

”Mollie,” he said, ”what has brought you here? Why have you come?”

”I have come,” she answered, ”for Dolly's sake!”

The vague fear he had felt at first caught hold upon him with all the fulness of its strength.

”For Dolly's sake!” he echoed. ”Nay, Dolly has done with me, and I with her.” And though he tried to speak bitterly, he failed.

She was too fond of Dolly, and too full of grief to spare him after that. Unstrung as she was, her reproach burst forth from her without a softened touch. ”Dolly has done with earth. Dolly's life is over,” she sobbed. ”Do you know that she is dying? Yes, dying,--our own bright Dolly,--and you--_you_ have killed her!”

She had not thought how cruel it would sound, and the next instant she was full of terror at the effect of her own words. He broke loose from her,--_fell_ loose from her, one might better describe it, for it was his own weight rather than any effort which dragged him from her grasp.

He staggered and caught hold of the iron railings to save himself, and there hung, staring at her with a face like a dead man.

”My G.o.d!” he said,--not another word.

”You must not give way like that,” she cried out, in a new fright. ”Oh, how could I speak so! Aimee would have told you better. I did not mean to be so hard. You can save her if you will. She will not die, Grif, if you go to her. She only wants _you_. Grif,--Grif,--you look as if you could not understand what I am saying.” And she wrung her hands.

And, indeed, it scarcely seemed as if he did understand, though at last he spoke.

”Where is she?” he said. ”Not here? You say I must 'go' to her.”

”No, she is not here. She is at Lake Geneva. Miss MacDowlas took her there because she grew so weak, and she has grown weaker ever since, and three days ago they sent for Aimee to come to her, because--because they think she is going to die.”

”And you say that _I_ have done this?”

”I ought n't to have put it that way, it sounds so cruel, but--but she has never been like herself since the night you went away, and we have all known that it was her unhappiness that made her ill. She could not get over it, and though she tried to hide it, she was worn out. She loved you so.”