Part 38 (1/2)

And why not, my reader? If one rose is not for us, the sun s.h.i.+nes on many another as sweet and quite as fair; and what is more, it is more than probable that if we had seen the last rose first, we should have loved the first rose last. It is only when, like Dolly and Grif, we have watched our rose from its first peep of the leaf, and have grown with its growth, that there can be no other rose but one.

”_Le roi est mort--Vive le roi!_”

CHAPTER XVIII. ~ GRIF!

THERE was a hush upon the guests at the pretty little inn. Most of them were not sojourners of a day, who came and went, as they did at the larger and busier hotels,--they were comfortable people who enjoyed themselves in their own quiet way and so had settled down for the time being. Accordingly they had leisure to become interested in each other; and there were few of them who did not feel a friendly interest in the pretty, pale English girl, who, report said, was fading silently out of life in her bright room up-stairs. When Aimee arrived, the most sympathetic shook their heads dubiously.

”The sister is here,” they said; ”a thoughtful little English creature with a child's face and a woman's air. They sent for her. One can easily guess what that means.”

Any one but Aimee would have been crushed at the outset by the shock of the change which was to be seen in the poor little worn figure, now rarely moved from its invalid's couch. But Aimee bore the blow with outward quiet at least. If she shed tears Dolly did not see them, and if she mourned Dolly was not disturbed by her sorrow.

”I have come to help Miss MacDowlas to take care of you, Dolly,” she said, when she gave her her greeting kiss, and Dolly smiled and kissed her in return.

But it was a terribly hard matter to fight through at first. Of course, as the girl had become weaker she had lost power over herself. She was restless and listless by turns. Sometimes she started at every sound, and again she lay with closed eyes for hours, dozing the day away. The mere sight of her in this latter state threw poor Phemie into an agony of terror and distress.

”It is so like Death,” she would say to Aimee. ”It seems as if we could never rouse her again.”

And then again she would rally a little, and at such times she would insist upon being propped up and allowed to talk, and her eyes would grow large and bright, and a spot of hectic color would burn on her cheeks. She did not even mention her trouble during the first two days of Aimee's visit, but on the third afternoon she surprised her by broaching the subject suddenly. She had been dozing, and on awakening she began to talk.

”Aimee,” she said, ”where is Miss MacDowlas?”

”In her room. I persuaded her to go and lie down.”

”I am very glad,” quietly. ”I want to do something particular. I want Grif's letters, Aimee.”

”Where are they?” Aimee asked.

”In a box in my trunk. I should like to have them now.”

Aimee brought them to her without comment. The box had not been large enough to hold them all, and there was an extra packet tied with that dear old stereotyped blue ribbon.

”What a many there are!” said Dolly, when she came to the couch with them. ”You will have to sit down by me and hold some of them. One can write a great many letters in seven years.”

The wise one sat down, obediently holding the box upon her knee. There were so many letters in it that it was quite heavy.

”I am going to look them over and tie them in packages, according to their dates,” said Dolly. ”He will like to have them when he comes back.”

It would not have been natural for her to preserve her calmness all through the performance of her task. Her first glance at the first letter brought the tears, and she cried quietly as she pa.s.sed from one to the other. They were such tender, impetuous letters. The very headings--”My Darling,” ”My pretty Darling,” ”My own sweetest Life”--impa.s.sioned, youthful-sounding, and Grif-like, cut her to the heart. Ah! how terrible it would be for him to see them again, as he would see them! She was pitying him far more than she was pitying herself.

It was a work not soon over, but she finished it at length. The packets were a.s.sorted and tied with new ribbon, and she lay down for a few minutes to rest.

”You will give them to him, Aimee?” she said. ”I think he will come some day; but if he does not, you must keep them yourself. I should not like people to read them--afterwards. Love-letters won't stand being read by strangers. I have often laughed and told him ours would n't. I am going to write a last one, however, this afternoon. You are to give it him, with the 'dead' letter--but they are all dead letters, are they not?”

”Dolly,” said Aimee, with a desperate effort, ”you speak as if you were sure you were--going.”

There was a silence, and then a soft, low, tremulous laugh,--the merest echo of a laugh. Despite her long suffering Dolly was Dolly yet. She would not let them mourn over her.

”Going,” she said, ”well--I think I am. Yes,” half reflectively, ”I think I must be. It cannot mean anything else,--this feeling, can it?