Old Kensington Part 52

This, then, was the moment for which she had waited, and thought to wait so long. He had come back to her. 'Robert!' she cried at last.

Perhaps if they had been alone, the course of their whole lives might have been changed; if their meeting had been unwitnessed, if Casimir had not been there, if Rhoda had not come up with many an exclamation of surprise, if all those looking-gla.s.ses and chairs and tables had not been in the way.... Robert stood looking down from the length of his six feet. He held a cold hand in his. He did not kiss Dolly, as he had done when he went away. He spoke to her, but with a slight constraint. He seemed to have lost his usual fluency and presence of mind. He was shocked at the change he saw. Those few months had worn her radiant beauty. She was tired by the journey, changed in manner. All her sweet faith and readiness to believe, and all her belief in Henley, had not made this meeting, to which she had looked forward as 'her one bright spot,' anything like that which she had expected. Something in Robert's voice, his slight embarra.s.sment, something in the att.i.tude of the two as she had seen them when she first came in and thought them strangers, something indefinite, but very present, made her shy and strange, and the hand that held her cold fingers let go as Rhoda flung her arms affectionately round her. Then with gentle violence Dolly was led to the fire and pushed down into a satin chair.

'I only came last night,' said Henley. 'I was afraid of missing you, or I should have gone to meet you.'

'We expected you to-morrow, Dolly,' interrupted Rhoda, in her sweet voice: 'we were so surprised to see _him_ walk in;' and she quietly indicated Henley with a little motion of the head.

'Everybody seems to have been running after everybody else. I am ashamed of myself for startling you all,' said Robert, jerking his watch-chain.

'It is a whole series of changes. I will tell you all about it, Dolly, when you are rested. I found I could get leave at the very last instant, and I came off by the steamer. I wrote from Ma.r.s.eilles, but you must have missed my letter. This is altogether a most fortunate, unexpected meeting,' he added, turning to Rhoda.

Henley's utter want of tact stood him in good service, and made it possible for him to go on talking. Dolly seemed frozen. Rhoda was very much agitated. There seemed to be a curious understanding and sympathy between Robert and Miss Parnell.

'Have you seen your mother?' said Rhoda, putting her white hand upon Dolly's shoulder. 'How cold and tired you must be? Who did you come with, after all?'

'I came with--I forget,' said Dolly. 'Where is mamma?' and she started up, looking still bewildered.

'Your mother lives next door. I myself made the same mistake last night,' said Robert, and he picked up Dolly's bags and shawls from the floor, where she had dropped them. Rhoda started up to lead the way.

'You may as well come through my room,' she said, opening a door into a great dim room scented with verbena, and all s.h.i.+ning with lace frills and satin folds. A middle-aged lady in a very smart cap, who was reading the paper by the light of a small lamp, looked up as they pa.s.sed. Rhoda carelessly introduced her as Miss Rougemont.

'My companion,' she said, in a low voice, as she opened another door.

'She is very good-natured and is never put out by anything.'

Dolly followed straight on over the soft carpets, on through another dark room, and then another, to a door from whence came a gleam of light.

As Rhoda opened the door there came the sudden jingling of music and a sound of voices; a man met them carrying a tray of refreshments; a distant voice was singing to the accompaniment of a piano. Julie stood at a table pouring out coffee; she put down the pot with an exclamation: 'Good heavens, mademoiselle! Who ever would have thought----?' Some one came up to ask for coffee, and Julie took up her pot again.

'How stupid of me to forget!' said Rhoda. 'It is your mother's day at home, Dolly. I will send her to you. Wait one minute.'

Poor Dolly, it was a lesson to her not to come unexpectedly.

'Madame _will_ be distressed,' said Julie, coming forward, 'to receive Mademoiselle in such a confusion! The gentlemen all came; they brought music; they want coffee at every instant, or _the a l'Anglaise_.'

As she spoke a little fat man came up to the table, and Julie darted back to her post.

Meanwhile the music went on.

'Pet.i.ts, pet.i.ts, pet.i.ts oiseaux!

sang a tenor voice--

'Jolis, jolis, jolis, pet.i.ts!'

sang a ba.s.s--

'Jolis, pet.i.ts, cheris!'

sang the two together.

But at that instant, with a rush, with a flutter, with her hair dressed in some strange new style, Mrs. Palmer at last appeared and clasped Dolly, with many reproaches.

'You naughty child, who _ever_ expected you to-day! and the Admiral started off to meet you! How provoking. A wreck! utterly tired out! Come to your room directly, dearest. It is quite ready, only full of cloaks and hats. Here, Rhoda, cannot you take her in?'

'Never mind the cloaks and hats, mamma,' said Dolly, with a smile. 'I had rather stay here; and Julie will give me and Marker some coffee.'

'Marker! Good gracious! I had forgotten all about Marker,' exclaimed Mrs. Palmer.

CHAPTER LI.

'SING HOa.r.s.e, WITH TEARS BETWEEN.'

'Sing sorrow, sing sorrow, triumph the good.'

--aeschylus, _Agamemnon_.

Robert had come back from India prepared to fight Dolly's battle.

Although expressing much annoyance that this disagreeable task should have been left to him, he remembered Rhoda as an inoffensive little thing, and he had no doubt but that she would hear reason, if things were clearly put before her. She was too much in her right to be expected to give up everything, but Robert had but little doubt that he should be able to effect a compromise; he had lived long enough to realise how much weight one definite, clearly-expressed opinion may have in the balance. It was most fortunate that his official duties should have brought him home at this juncture. Dolly must consent to be guided by him. He was in some sense her natural protector still, although he felt at times that there was not that singleness of purpose about his cousin which he should have wished to find in the woman whom he looked upon as his future wife. At this time he had no intention of breaking with her. He wished to keep her in suspense. She deserved it: she had not once thought of him; she had behaved most childishly--yielded where she should have been firm, sacrificed everything to a pa.s.sing whim; she had been greatly tried, of course, but even all this might have been partly avoided if she had done as he recommended. So thought Robert as he was tying his white neckcloth in the gla.s.s at his hotel. The gilt frame reflected back a serious young man and a neatly-tied cravat, and he was satisfied with both. He came back to a late dinner with Rhoda after Mrs. Palmer's Thursday Afternoon had departed, taking away its cloaks and hats. Signor Pappaforte was the last to go. M. de Molleville took leave. Mrs. Palmer, needless to say, was charmed with the Molleville family--counts, marquises, dukes. They all lived in the house, overhead, underfoot. Mdme. la Comtesse was a most delightful person. M. le Comte was the only one of the family she did not take to, M. le Comte being a sensible man, and somewhat abruptly cutting short Mrs. Palmer's many questions and confidences.

The table was prettily laid in the big dining-room; the lamplight twinkled upon the firmament of plates and silver spoons, and the flowers that Rhoda had herself arranged. She was waiting for her guests. Robert having, as in duty bound, first rung at his aunt's door, and learned from Julie that Mademoiselle was resting, and that Madame was dressing still, came across to the other apartment, where all was in order and ready to make him comfortable. Rhoda was sitting in her usual place on the little low chair by the fire. She had taken off her white dress--she had put on a velvet gown; in her dark hair were two diamond stars: they _shone_ in the firelight as she sat thoughtfully watching the little flame. 'Have you brought them?' she said, without looking round. 'Are you alone? Come and sit down here and be warmed while you wait.'

Rhoda's voice was like a bell, it rang so clear; when she was excited it seemed to rise and fall and vibrate. At other times she would sit silent; but though she sat silent, she held her own. Some people have this gift of voiceless emotion, of silent expression. Rhoda was never unnoticed: in her corner, crossing a street, or pa.s.sing a stranger in a crowded room, she would mark her way as she pa.s.sed along. It was this influence which had haunted poor George all his life, which made itself felt now as it had never done before. Rhoda now seemed suddenly to have bloomed into the sweetness and delicate brightness which belongs to some flowers, such as cyclamen and others I could name. She had been transplanted into clear air, into ease of mind and of body; she suddenly seemed to have expanded into her new life, and her nature had kindled to all sorts of new and wonderful things. Many of these were to be bought with silver and gold; it was not for affection, nor for the highest emotions, that little Rhoda had pined: hers was the enthusiasm of common-place: it was towards bright things of every kind that this little flame spirit turned so eagerly. Sometimes A gets credit for saying what B may have thought and felt, what C has lived for years with courage and self-denial; then comes a Rhoda, who _looks_ it all without an effort or a single word, and no wonder that Robert and many others were struck by her strange beauty and touched by her gentle magnetism of expression and of grace.

Henley came up, and without any hesitation established himself in the warm corner she indicated. The stiffness he had undoubtedly felt when they first met had worn off since that 'business talk'--so Rhoda called it; and now he did not know whether it was business or pleasure as he listened to Rhoda's low song of explanation, and watched her white fingers opening to the fire. Signor Pappaforte's tenor was not to compare to Rhoda's soft performance. Perhaps I am wrong to use such a word; for, after all, she was as genuine as Dolly herself in her way--as Dolly who had fallen asleep, and was far away in spirit, dreaming a little dream of all that had happened that day.

Rhoda resumed their conversation quite naturally. 'We may be interrupted,' she said earnestly, 'and there is one more thing I want to say to you. You know better than I do; you must judge for me. I always hoped that when you came, all would be arranged. I know nothing of business,' she said, smiling. 'I only know that I like my pretty things, and that it makes me happy to live here, and to have my flowers and my nice dresses and fresh air. Is it wrong? It seems a sort of new life to me;' and a wistful face was gently upraised. 'If Dolly wishes it I will give it all back--everything,' said Rhoda, who knew that she was pretty safe in making this generous offer, and she smoothed the soft velvet fold wistfully with her fingers, as if she felt it was no longer her own. 'Dolly refused, when I begged her to take it all long ago,' she added. 'Now I wish she had agreed before I became accustomed to this new life. I confess that I do not like to look back. Serge and smoke and omnibuses all seem more horrid than ever.'

Robert scarcely knew how to answer the poor little thing. 'Did you offer to give it all up?' he said, starting up, and walking up and down with long strides to hide his embarra.s.sment. 'I was never told of it, or I should certainly have ac----Dolly should have told me,' he said quickly--all his embarra.s.sment turning into wrath against Dolly.

'Don't blame her,' said Rhoda, in a low voice; 'she is so generous, so n.o.ble. I can understand her refusing for herself; though I think if I had loved any one as--as Dolly must love--I should have thought of his interest first of all, and not of my own impulse. I know people might say it is very foolish of me and weak-minded,' she said, faltering.

'They could only say that _you_ were a true woman, and respect you for your generous devotion,' said Robert, taking her hand. He dropped it rather awkwardly as Miss Rougemont came into the room, followed almost immediately by Mrs. Palmer.

'That tired child of mine is still asleep,' said Mrs. Palmer. 'Marker wouldn't let me awaken her.'

'Then perhaps we had better not wait,' said Rhoda, whose dark eyes were never more wakeful. 'Ring the bell, Miss Rougemont.'

So Rhoda and her guests sat down with a very good appet.i.te to dinner; she charmed them all by her grace as a hostess. Miss Rougemont, who was not a guest, discreetly retired as soon as the meal was over.

Robert pa.s.sed a very disturbed night. It was near twelve o'clock next morning when he rang at the door of his aunt's apartment. Dolly had been expecting him for a long time. The baker, the water-carrier with his clanking wooden pails, Mr. Anley's familiar tones, inquiring whether Miss Vanborough was '_engagee_'--every ring, every voice had made her heart beat. Robert found Mr. Anley still sitting with Dolly. They were by an open window full of spring flowers. The cheerful rattle of the street below, the cries of itinerant vendors, the noisy song of a bird in the suns.h.i.+ne, and the bright morning light itself poured into the room in a great stream of dazzling motes and gold, through which the girl came blus.h.i.+ng to meet her kinsman.

'I am afraid your long sleep has not rested you,' he said, looking at her hard, as she stood in the slanting stream, all illuminated for an instant--her rough hair radiant, her black gown changed to a purple primrose mist; then she came out of the light into every day, and again he thought how changed she was.

'I have brought you some violets,' and he gave her a bunch that he held in his hand. Robert thought Dolly changed. How shall I describe her at this time of her life? The dominant radiance of early youth was gone; a whole lifetime had come into the last few months. But if the brightest radiance was no longer there, a less self-absorbed person than Robert Henley might have been touched by the tender sweetness of that pale face. Its peaceful serenity did not affect him in the same way as Rhoda's appealing glances; it seemed to tell of a whole experience far away, in which he was not, and which, in his present frame of mind, only seemed to reproach him.