How strange it sounds! Have I never thought that I could die before, or is it strange because now it is so real and near? When I used to talk about death to Grif, it always seemed so far away from both of us; it seemed to me as if I was not good enough or unreal enough to be near to Death,--great, solemn Death itself. Why, I could look at myself, and wonder at the thought of how much I shall see and know if I should die.
Grif, how much I should have to tell you, dear,--only that people are always afraid of spirits, and perhaps you would be afraid, too,--even of me! What would they say at home? Dear, old, broken-hearted fellow, what would _you_ say, if I should die?"
She could not help thinking about those at home; about Aimee and Mollie and Phil and Toinette, sitting together in the dear old littered room at Bloomsbury Place,--the dear old untidy room, where she had sat with Grif so often! How would they all bear it when the letter came to tell them she was gone, and would never be with them and share their pleasures and troubles again! And then, strangely enough, she began to picture herself as she would look; perhaps, laid out in this very room, a dimly outlined figure, under a white sheet,--not her old self, but a solemn, wondrous marble form, before whose motionless, mysterious presence they would feel awed.
"And they would turn down the white covering and look at me," she found herself saying. "And they would wonder at me, and feel that I was far away. Oh, how they would wonder at me! And, at the very last, before they hid my face forever under the coffin-lid, they would all kiss me in that tender, solemn way,--all but Grif, who loved me best; and Grif would not be there!"
And the piteous rain of heavy tears that rolled down her cheeks, and fell upon her pillow, was not for herself,--not for her own pain and weariness and anguish,--not" for the white, worn face, that would be shut beneath the coffin-lid, but for Grif,--for Grif,--for Grif, who, coming back some day to learn the truth, might hear that she had died!
CHAPTER XVII. ~ DO YOU KNOW THAT SHE IS DYING?
IT had come at last,--the letter from Geneva, for which they all had waited with such anxious hearts and so much of dread. The postman, bringing it by the morning"s delivery, and handing it through the opened door to Aimee, had wondered a little at her excited manner,--she was always excited when these letters came; and the moment she had entered the parlor, holding the hurriedly read note,--it was scarcely more than a note,--there was not one of them who did not understand all before she spoke.
Mrs. Phil burst into tears; Phil himself laid down his brush and changed color; Mollie silently clung to Tod as a refuge, and looked up with trembling lips.
Mrs. Phil was the first to speak.
"You may as well tell us the worst," she said; "but it is easy enough to guess what it is, without being told."
"It is almost the _very_ worst," answered Aimee.
"Miss MacDowlas wants me to go to them at once. _She_ is so ill that if a change does not take place, she will not live many weeks, and she has asked for me."
They all knew only too well that "she" meant Dolly.
"Then," said Phil, "you must go at once."
"I can go to-day," she answered. "I knew it would come to this, and I am ready to leave London at any moment."
There was no delay. Her small box was even then ready packed and corded for the journey. She had taken Miss MacDowlas"s warning in time. It would not have been like this heavy-hearted wise one to disregard it.
She would have been ready to go to Dolly at ten minutes" notice, if she had been in India. She was not afraid, either, of making the journey alone. It was not a very terrible journey, she said. Secretly, she had a fancy that perhaps Dolly would like to see her by herself first, to have a few quiet days alone with her, in which she could become used to the idea of the farewell the rest would come to say. And in her mind the poor little oracle had another fancy, too, and this fancy she confided to Mollie before bidding her good-by.
"Mollie," she said, "I am going to leave a charge in your hands."
"Is it anything about Dolly?" asked Mollie, making fruitless efforts to check her affectionate tears.
"I wish you would leave me something to do for Dolly, Aimee."
"It is something connected with Dolly;" returned Aimee. "I want you to keep constantly on the watch for Griffith."
"For Griffith!" Mollie exclaimed. "How can I, when I don"t know whether he is in England or not?"
"He is in England," Aimee replied. "He is in London, for Mr. Gowan has seen him."
"In London--and Dolly in Switzerland, perhaps dying!"
"He does not know that, or he would have been with her before now," said Aimee. "Once let him know that she is ill, and he will be with her. I know him well enough to be sure of that. And it is my impression that if he went to her at the eleventh hour, when she might seem to us to be at the very last, he would bring her back to life. It is Grif she is dying for, and only Grif can save her."
"And what do you want me to do?" anxiously.
"To watch for him constantly, as I said. Don"t _you_ think, Mollie, that he might come back, if it were only into the street to look at the house, in a restless sort of remembrance of the time when they used to be so happy?"
"It would not be unlike him," answered Mollie, slowly. "He was very fond of Dolly. Oh, he was very fond of her!"
"Fond of her! He loved her better than his life, and does still, wherever he may be. Something tells me he will come, and that is why I want you to watch. Watch at the window as constantly as you can, but more particularly at dusk; and if you should see him, Mollie, don"t wait a second. Run out to him, and _make_ him listen to you. Ah, poor fellow, he will listen eagerly and penitently enough, if you only say to him that Dolly is dying."
"Very well," said Mollie, "I will remember." And thus the wise one took her departure.
It was twilight in Bloomsbury Place, and Mollie crouched before the parlor window, resting her chin upon her hands, and looking out, pretty much as Aimee had looked out on that winter evening months ago, when Mr.
Gerald Chandos had first presented himself to her mind as an individual to be dreaded.
Three days had pa.s.sed since the wise one left London,--three miserable, dragging days they had seemed to Mollie, despite their summer warmth and suns.h.i.+ne. Real anxiety and sorrow were new experiences in Vagabondia; little trials they had felt, and often enough small unpleasantnesses, privations, and disappointments; but death and grief were new. And they were just beginning to realize broadly the blow which had fallen upon them; hard as it was to believe at first, they were beginning slowly to comprehend the sad meaning of the lesson they were learning now for the first time. What each had felt a fear of in secret was coming to pa.s.s at last, and there was no help against it.
Phil went about his work looking as none of them had ever seen him look before. Mrs. Phil"s tears fell thick and fast. Not understanding the mystery, she could blame n.o.body but Grif, and Grif she could not forgive. To Mollie the house seemed like a grave. She could think of nothing but Dolly,--Dolly, white and worn and altered, lying upon her couch, her eyes closed, her breath fluttering faintly. She wondered if she was afraid to die. She herself had a secret girlish terror of death and its strange solemness, and she so pitied Dolly that sometimes she could not contain her grief, and was obliged to hide herself until her tears spent themselves.
She had been crying during all this twilight hour she had knelt at the window. She was so lonely that it seemed impossible to do anything else.
It would have been bad enough to bear the suspense even if Aimee had been with her, but without Aimee it was dreadful. The tears slipped down her cheeks and rolled away, and she did not even attempt to dry them, her affectionate grief had mastered her completely. But she was roused at length. Some one crossed the street from the pavement opposite the house; and when this some one entered the gate and ascended the steps, she rose slowly, half-reluctant, half-comforted, and with a faint thrill at her heart. It was Ralph Gowan, and she was not wise enough or self-controlled enough yet to see Ralph Gowan without feeling her pulses quicken.
When she opened the door he did not greet her as usual, but spoke to her at once in a low, hurried tone.
"Mollie, where is Aimee?" he asked.
Her tears began to flow again; she could not help giving way.
"You had better come in," she said, half turning away from him and speaking brokenly. "Aimee is not here. She left London three days ago.
Dolly--"
"Dolly is worse!" he said, because she could not finish.
She nodded, with a heart too full for words.
He stepped inside, and, closing the door, laid his hand upon her shoulder.
"Then, Mollie," he said, "I must come to you."
He did not wait a moment, but led her gently enough into the parlor, and, blinded as she was by her tears, she saw that instant that he had not come without a reason.
"Don"t cry," he said. "I want you to be brave and calm now,--for Dolly"s sake. I want your help,--for Dolly"s sake, remember."
She recollected Aimee"s words--"Mr. Gowan has seen him"--and a sudden light flashed upon her. The tears seemed to dry of their own accord all at once, as she looked up.
"Yes," she answered.
He knew, without hearing another word, that he might trust her.
"Can you guess whom I have just this moment seen?" he said.