The fair little oracle hesitated; remembering Dolly's passionate despair and grief over that “dead letter,” she could scarcely trust herself to speak.
“Yes,” she answered at last, feeling it would be best only to commit herself in Phil's own words, “she is very much cut up.”
“Whew!” whistled Phil; “that is worse than I thought!” And the matter ended in his going back to his picture and painting furiously for a few minutes, with an almost reflective air.
They did not see anything of Dolly for weeks. She wrote to them now and then, but she did not pay another visit to Bloomsbury Place. It was not the old home to her now, and she dreaded seeing it in its new aspect,—the aspect which was desolate of Grif. Most of her letters came to Aimée; but she rarely referred to her trouble, rather seeming to avoid it than otherwise. And the letters themselves were bright enough, seeming, too. She had plenty to say about Miss MacDowlas and their visitors and her own duties; indeed, any one but Aimée would have been puzzled by her courage and apparent good spirits. But Aimée saw below the surface, and understood, and, understanding, was fonder of her than ever.
As both Dolly and herself had expected, Mollie did not keep her secret from the oracle many weeks. It was too much for her to bear alone, and one night, in a fit of candor and remorse, she poured out everything from first to last, all her simple and unsophisticated dreams of grandeur, all her gullibility, all her danger,—everything, indeed, but the story of her pitiful little fancy for Ralph Gowan. She could not give that up, even to Aimée, though at the close of her confidence she was unable to help referring to him.
“And as to Mr. Gowan,” she said, “how can I ever speak to him again! but, perhaps, he would not speak to me. He must think I am wicked and bold and hardened—and bad,” with a fresh sob at every adjective. “Oh, dear! oh, dear!” burying her face in Aimée's lap, “if I had only stayed at home and been good, like you. He could have respected me, at least, couldn't he? And now—oh, what am I to do!”
Aimée could not help sighing. If she only had stayed at home, how much happier they all might have been! But she had promised Dolly not to add to her unhappiness by hinting at the truth, so she kept her own counsel.
It was fully three months before they saw Ralph Gowan again. He had gone on the Continent, they heard. A feeling of delicacy had prompted the journey. As long as he remained in London, he could scarcely drop out of his old friendly position at Bloomsbury Place, and he felt that for a while at least Mollie would scarcely find it easy to face him. So he went away and rambled about until he thought she would have time to get over her first embarrassment.
But at the end of the three months he came back, and one afternoon surprised them all by appearing amongst them again. Mollie, sitting perseveringly at work over her penitential sewing, shrank a little, and dropped her eyelids when he came in, but she managed to behave with creditable evenness of manner after all, and the rest welcomed him warmly.
“I have been to Brabazon Lodge,” he said at length to Aimée. “I spent Monday evening there, and was startled at the change I found in your sister. I did not know she was ill.”