Dolores

Chapter I. In The Row

T T is the first week in May, the weather -*- is bright and June-like, and the London season has commenced in good earnest. The Row is sufficiently full to be pleasant — there is not the disagreeable crowding you get later on, when the mass of, for the most part, tawdrily got-up humanity seethes up and down the narrow path, treading on each other's toes and gowns, proceeding at about the same pace they would out of a crowded church — some B VOL. DOLOEES. gushing, some with sickly smiles, some with hot-faced, weary discontent. But this warm May morning the as semblage is quite of the elite. There are some charming toilettes ; dresses and com plexions look fresh ; the fair Amazons glow with the flush of their healthful exercise ; the horses are gay and full of spirit ; and as for the men, they are about as good looking, well-dressed a lot as England can produce, and I defy any other country in the world to match them.

Everything and everyone looks so bright and well and cheery this morning, it is a very difficult matter to believe they are not all as gay and light-hearted as they look ; but we, who know the world, and are behind the scenes, are well aware what the gay mask hides. Some of them may be pleased and amused, even happy, but with the majority, behind the smile there lurks, if not a heart ache, still an unfilled want, a yearning after something that is not "vanity and vexation of spirit." Still the faces smile, the voices are cheery, and the scene is bright enough to take in the outside public. There is a girl of about sixteen standing by the rails, utterly absorbed in contem plating the gay scene. She has nothing to do with the story, and you, reader, if you had seen her, would not have remarked her in any way, but we, whose business it is to try to beguile your idle hours, have to go about with our eyes open, and con cern ourselves with things and people you would not take the trouble to remark ; and then, you know, we are thought-readers, and have the gift of divining what people are thinking about.

So it comes that I sit for some half an hour watching this girl, and seeming to read her heart, and in my own way to be answering her thoughts. But if this seems tedious, the gentle reader has only to turn over a few pages, and get back to the story, should it be so fortunate as to interest him. But I cannot part B DOLORES. company from my humble little friend just yet. I see in her so much more than ap pears on the surface ; in her eyes I read ambition, impatience of her humble sphere, and such a craving after the happiness she imagines she sees before her. She is thinking enviously and longingly how in tensely happy all these elegant, well dressed people must be ; she is painfully conscious of her own poor, cheap, unfash ionable clothes, her ill-made boots, the loutish young fellow who is her companion, and she thinks, only to be one of these ladies — only to be beautifully dressed, and surrounded by handsome, distinguished looking men, must be heaven upon earth.

She wonders bitterly in her heart why her lot in life should be so hardly different — why she, yearning after all these enviable things, should be shut out from them ? She does not dream — how should she ? — that in all this gay bright throng there is, perhaps, not one really happy, contented heart. She does not know — how should she ? — that these beings of another world from hers suffer as much from being " bored" as poor people do from want, and misery, and privation. Ennui is as much the curse of the upper ranks of society as poverty is of the lower. I hardly know which is hardest to bear, the hunger of the body or the hunger of the heart — that perpetual weariness, perpetual desire of amusement, perpetual striving to get out of themselves. Nine-tenths of the time the whirl of gaiety they fling themselves into doesn't amuse them, and yet without it they would be utterly, hopelessly wretch ed. Half an hour's amusement, excitement, pleasure, will probably be followed by the reaction of weariness or morbid dis content.

If they have enjoyed a little, they want always to enjoy. It seems hard, shameful, cruel that the world should paint life in such fair colours one moment, to blur them into dull drabs and greys the DOLORES. next. My lady in her dainty boudoir is dull and cross and vexed because she has caught cold, and her doctor has forbidden her to go out in the evening until she has lost it ; and so she sits and frets and chafes, thinking herself the most ill-used, unhappy mortal, because she is missing four or five entertainments, that probably would not have amused her, and forgets that there are in this very city many as young as she who are stretched on beds of sickness and suffering — some who, perchance, will never walk abroad in God's fair sunshine again. "Why can't we bring ourselves to look at the bright side of things, and be thankful for all the blessings we have, instead of being discontented, and longing for the grapes that grow out of our reach ?

Well for us if we could emulate Reynard's sagacity, and call them sour, instead of longing and striving after them, and fancying them ten times sweeter than they are. You see women, pretty, admired, fashionable, and you, who perhaps don't possess these at tributes, think they ought to be immensely happy and contented. Are they ? Not a bit more, perhaps not half so much as you, my friend. "Why ? Because the more you have of the good things of this world, the more you want, and the less it is in their power to satisfy you. Oh ! hard, if just dispensation ! And perhaps of all-unsatisfy ing, heart-breaking, spirit-wearing things in the world, perpetual pleasure-seeking is the most stale, flat, and unprofitable. Have not nearly all the happiest moments of our lives been those in which we did not preconcert our pleasure ; and have not nearly all those plans from which we promised ourselves great enjoyment, turned out lamentable failures ?

So with the pretty, charming women of the world — you see them bright, gay, admired, ergo they must be happy ; and none but themselves know what failures, what disappointments, what mortifications have gone to initiate DOLORES. them into the world-known fact, that " all is vanity and vexation of spirit." Well, my poor little girl with the wistful eyes and the dusty boots, come with me a moment, and I will put you behind the poor shabby garish scenes that look like fairy-land from your front view. You see all these pretty, fashionable, elegant wo men, occupying a quarter of a mile of chairs, or moving languidly up and down, for the better display of their toilettes — you'll be very much surprised to hear that nine out of ten are quite as discontented as you are, and some a great deal more so.

You see this lovely woman in the satin and lace, with fair hair, tapping a dainty little impatient foot on the shelly gravel. Super ficial observer that you are, you only see that she is beautiful, well-dressed, and talking and laughing to two good-looking men ; really she is so vexed and mortified she could cry, because she made a rendez vous with that fair, long-moustached man five chairs lower down, and he has been sitting for the last half hour talking to that piquante brunette, seeming very happy indeed, without any sign that he remembers his appointment. Well, here is another, radiant with smiles, you say — ah ! but you can't read faces. She has the reputation of being a good deal admired, and is never happy unless surrounded by a group of men, because she knows that men are like sheep, and always run in a flock, particularly after a woman ; and this morning there is only one man talking to her, and he no one in par ticular, so that rather effusive smile and manner are to prevent any one discovering how really vexed and mortified she feels.

And so on. This one is disappointed because she has no one at all to talk to ; the next be cause the man she sat out with at a ball last night, and who seemed so epris, has not come up to speak to her; the next DOLORES. because a very plain, badly-dressed friend from the country has taken the chair beside her, to have a long chat, thereby displacing the good-looking young Guardsman who had so much to say to her ; another be cause a fair acquaintance has asked her with charming malice if she is going to the Duchess's to-morrow, and seems so surprised when she answers in the negative ; another because she feels her neAV bonnet is not becoming ; another because she has quar relled with her lover ; another because she has had her milliner's bill, and bad as she expected it to be, had no conception it would prove so startling !

How on earth is she to tell her husband ? "Well, you give up the women — you allow they are dissatisfied, and with some rea son ; but the men, they look so gay, so debonnaire — or if not that, at all events so supremely indifferent and unimpression able. But they are worse off than the women — oh ! much more blase, much more bored ! The season's an awful bore, tho Row's an awful bore ; it's an awful bore for a man to be kicking his heels about here, and dancing attendance on a lot of women — they don't feel fit this morning ; or they've got a lawyer's letter about that d d bill they were fool enough to back for Blank ; the horse they were so sweet upon has gone all wrong ; the woman they're fond of has turned them over for that little beast with his confounded money ; they can't get any more leave • or, oh ! commonest and most irritating worry of all these good-looking, well-got-up young fellows, they are " hard-up."

"There is no end, no limit, measure, bound, In that word's death." It means getting deeper into the hands of the Jews • it means sending their horses to Tattersall's ; it means selling out of the regiment they're so proud of, because they can't get the money to buy their next step, or because the time has come when they DOLORES. can't stave off their creditors any longer ; it means to some, binding themselves for life to a woman with whom they haven't one sympathy in common, to others exile, if only temporary, from all they care for ; it means vexation, worry, ceaseless, per petual, unrelenting. They may look ever so cheery, and laugh ever so heartily, these dashing young fellows, but no one on this earth, whatever we hear to the contrary, can be really unconcerned at the thought that he is in debt which he does not see the way clear to shake off without dishonour.

And so you see, little girl, if you'll take my word for it, that the brilliant, envied beings who for the most part compose this gay throng, don't all wear heartsease in their breasts. I daresay, though, if they only realised the pain and suffering, the agony and want that is going on day and night around them in the great pitiless world, they would be a little ashamed of their peevish discontent and ennui. If you, Madame, rich, good-looking, admired, could realise the dull, forlorn, loveless life of some of your poor sisters — say, for instance, of a teacher in a girl's school, of some invalid's companion, some poor cripple or deformed creature who never in this world had a look of love or admiration, but instead perhaps a shuddering averted glance. You see vice, squalor, wretchedness sometimes, when you drive through a by-street, leaning back in your well-stuffed carriage ; or often enough, Heaven knows ! in our broad thoroughfares, there are poor drabs of women, with all beauty and loveableness seamed and dis torted out of their rugged faces.

Who made you to differ from them ? — you might have been in their place and they in yours. Do you know, as you frivolously toss away your guineas for something you don't want, that there are people starving for want of bread — poor, cheap, common bread ? Do you know there are women watching the poor, emaciated frames of the children or DOLORES. the men they love, heart-broken because they have not that little wherewithal to keep the poor body and soul together, or to minister some small comfort to the dying dear one ? You have a down bed to lie upon, a soft carriage to ride in, luxurious food to eat, beautiful clothes to wear, how, think you, would you make the poor, suffering, hungry toilers understand your discontent, your imaginary grievances, your ennui? Fancy if you only realised that there are people in the world whose idea of Heaven is " always to have enough to eat."

Throw the book down — it is dull, weari some, stupid ; you don't want unpleasant thoughts put into your head, you want to be amused. I have done with my shabby, ambitious little friend, and the thoughts she has brought crowding to my brain, and am ready to go back to my story. Milly and Dolores are both of the com pany this morning; both look charming, both are smiling, and yet I fancy neither is quite happy in her mind. Dolores would so supremely enjoy this new life that has opened upon her had she only Guy by her side, but she has never once seen him during the fortnight that has elapsed since her arrival in England. He writes kind letters, but has scarcely once mentioned his mother, or alluded to her going to "Wentworth ; and though she writes nearly every day, and entreats him to come to her in London, and tells him the only thing she wants to make her quite happy is his presence, he has always put her off with excuses about his affairs, and the attention they require after so long an absence.

Poor child, the bitter is already well mixed with the sweet ; the fu ture that had seemed so fair is growing over cast, and she has said to herself more than once, " Oh why did I ever see him again ! I had forgotten him, and was so happy with Philip and Mary." She cannot help seeing the truth — his mother is displeased, and will not invite her to Wentworth ; and she knows, DOLORES. oh ! she is quite sure, that the reason Guy does not come to her in London is that he cannot trust himself in the presence of Mrs. Charteris. To be jealous of a woman who is married ! Dolores cannot realise it to herself, and yet she is bitterly jealous — so jealous that sometimes she hates Milly. Captain Charteris is devoted to her, insists on driving her in his phaeton, speaks to her always in his caressing voice, and it gives her a wicked secret pleasure to feel that she can make Milly suffer the tortures she has inflicted upon her.

For jealousy is a hateful thing, and triumphs over every good and pure feeling. Milly knows she cannot bear it much longer — she feels she owes Guy something — for his sake she has been unvaryingly kind to Dolores, but now that Adrian pays her this marked attention, and seems to take so much pleasure in her society — even though she knows that Do lores cares for no one in the world but Guy, just as Dolores knows Milly is utterly and solely devoted to her husband — yet the girl's presence has become intolerable to her, and it is only the urgent entreaties of Guy to keep her until his mother grows into a better frame of mind, that prevents her writing to him that he must absolutely come and take her back with him to Went worth. c VOL. m.

Introduction

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DOLORES still wears slight mourning for her mother, whose comparatively recent death is an excuse for her not going to balls or dinners ; but she sees plenty of society at Milly's house, in the Park, and at the Opera, and has been introduced already to many of Guy's friends. " She is a great success," Adrian writes to his brother — " in fact, if you don't come back soon, I think some bigger swell will cut you out. Horton is immensely taken with her ; and his old mother was asking me yesterday why you did not take more care of such a prize ? I told her ladyship that you were perfectly satisfied as long as she was under my respectable guardianship; at which she tapped me with her fan in her stupid old way, and said she did not con sider me a suitable guardian for a pretty girl, and asked how my wife liked her.

Of course I rephed immensely ; but in my own mind I don't think there is much love lost between the two. And I know Milly has been infernally cross with me lately, though she treats your future as if she was devoted to her. " What humbugs women are ! By Jove ! it would take a clever fellow to understand them. I don't; and I've seen a little of them, too. Apropos of that, imagine to yourself that Lady B has gone off with that old wretch Y , with his wig and stays, and not a sixpence. Mrs. S , they say, doesn't care twopence about Charlie, as nice and good-looking a fellow as ever breathed, and is head over ears in c2 DOLORES. love with that red-headed brute, G , in the Foreign Office, "But about Dolores — everyone likes her — the women too — they won't long ; and no unpleasant questions have been asked.

I believe Mrs. Vivian was rather inquisitive, but, as you know, Milly is a deuced clever woman, whatever else she may not be, and she made it all right there. The only thing people seem to think is, that it is a little odd you are never with her ; and I have to make excuses about business matters, and our mother not liking to spare you. However, that won't go down much longer ; and people will soon begin to talk — you know pretty well how they do. It's a confounded bore my lady taking it so badly ; but I thought she would ; and of course she won't care about turning out of Wentworth. I must write, and give a flaming account of Dolores to her. She has never once mentioned her in her letters to me or Milly since we returned. I fancy the girl must be hurt at your behaviour, although she laughs and talks with everybody who comes up to her ; and upon my soul, Guy, I really don't think you're be having particularly well to her.

I know if a girl was as fond of me as she seems of you, and such a pretty girl too, I don't think I could treat her in the way you're doing." Guy's lip curls a little as he reads this, he flings the letter on one side, but pre sently takes it up again, and reads it twice over very slowly. " Yes," he says presently, to himself, " it can't go on much longer like this — my mother and I must come to some under standing. * I don't think there is much love lost between the two ' " ( taking Adrian's letter up again, and reading). " ' I know Milly has been infernally cross with me lately.' Yes, I suppose Adrian is exercising his fascinations " (con temptuously) "on Dolores, and Milly is DOLORES. miserable. What a selfish brute I am ! "Well, I will delay no longer — it shall all be settled one way or the other this morn ing.

Poor mother ! — God knows I would be the last to make her unhappy ; but my first duty now is to the girl who is to be my wife." Since the evening of his arrival, the subject has never once been alluded to between Lady Wentworth and her son. She has waited for him to speak, and he has not felt the courage or inclination. All day he has been employed riding or walking about with his bailiff, and at night the conversation has turned almost entirely upon the events of the day, or on his travels. But this morning, when break fast is over, he says, " Mother, may I come to your room presently ? I want to talk to you." His face is pale and a little stern, and her cheek blanches somewhat as she answers, " By all means, my dear — you know I am always at your disposal." When he joins her, she is sitting in her usual place near the window, her tapestry work in her hands, which tremble a httle, although her face is composed.

Guy takes one or two turns in the room, and then, coming up suddenly, sits down by his mother, and takes her hand. " Mother, I think you know I would not willingly vex or pain you," he says, pleadingly- Lady Wentworth's lip trembles, but her face is cold and rigid ; she does not reply. "You know," he went on, earnestly, " I have asked — asked Dolores to marry me, and there is no drawing back now, even if I wished it," (hesitating,) " which I most certainly do not." "Why did you ask her?" says his mother, turning suddenly upon him — "why bring disgrace upon your family for a girl you do not love ? Nay, you need not in- DOLORES. terrupt me — you do not love her ; if you did, would you have been here a fortnight without once going to see her ? The dis tance is not very great ; you have had no thing really to keep you here, and I — I have not attempted to prevent you going."

" And yet," he replies gently, " it is you who prevent my going. I had promised that you would receive her, that she should come here at once ; I told Milly and Adrian so too ; but after the way in which you received my first mention of her, how was it possible I could ask you to invite her here ? And to see her, and tell the truth, or ignore what I had previously said — I ask you, mother, is it possible ?" " I cannot receive her," says Lady "Went worth, with angry energy ; "it is impossible. When she is your wife, if you in sist on marrying her, 1 must of course treat her as her position requires, but I do not think " (bitterly) " we shall often meet." Then, relenting, she says, taking both his hands, and with strong entreaty in her voice, " Guy, why do this foolish thing ? I do not know — I cannot imagine what your motive is ; but one thing I know, it is not love.

If, as you say, she has no family, no friends, we can find a home for her ; you can make her what compensation you please ; if she is so lovely, she will soon find another husband, and " Guy starts up in great anger, saying. passionately, " Mother, it is the first time I ever heard you dishonour your lips with bad counsel ; this is indeed unlike the mother whom I have loved and honoured ever since I was born/' Lady Wentworth is abashed by her son's words — the first harsh ones she has ever heard from his lips ; but she resents the rebuke. "You will do as you please" (rising, and with great haughtiness). " I am prepared DOLORES to leave your house when you please — to day, even." " Forgive me, mother ! " cries Guy, whose heart reproves him for having spoken harshly to his mother, although his sense of honour compelled the words.

" This house, you know, is yours, and will always be, as long as you care to live in it. But," (pushing her gently backinto her chair,) "let us talk together calmly and quietly over what is best to be done. You are quite wrong in fancying I do not love Dolores. She is a dear, sweet little girl, and I believe firmly that, when you come to know her, you will love her as a daughter. Adrian's wife's has done all in her power to make the best of what is bad in the matter ; she might have set her face against it, but she has been good ness itself. Adrian writes me that Dolores is well received. And, mother" (very ear nestly), "would you spoil her future and mine by showing the world that you disapprove the marriage — by making them suspect things which they will not if you open your arms to her ?"

A silence falls upon them ; it is broken at last by Lady Wentworth. "If it must be so," she says, coldly, " I will do what you wish — at all events, I will make no opposition. I will be present at your marriage. I will not let the world suspect my real feelings. But do not ask me to have her here now ; it is impossible. Since Milly" (eyeing him keenly) "has been already so kind, why should Miss Power not continue with her until your marriage ?" " Impossible !" (with great energy) — " utterly impossible !" (walking up and down the room with great strides.) " "Why impossible ?" (quietly.) Another pause. "Because" (slowly) "it makes Milly unhappy. Mother" (turning impetuously to her), " you know what Adrian is — you DOLORES. know that, without caring the least bit about them, he has a way of making love to every woman he meets.

I believe he is doing so now with Dolores ; and Milly " (with an effort) "is so devotedly fond of him that it half breaks her heart to see it. I must get her away ! For God's sake, mother, don't oppose the first thing I ever prayed of you in my life !" Lady "Wentworth looks at him sorrow fully. The ugly suspicion that had so small a shape before is growing large and dark. She sees the truth as far as his feelings for Milly are concerned, and it puts every other thought out of her head. It is not so much the words that he has spoken, but the deep, intense emotion she reads in his eyes and mouth. It is not for Dolores he is entreating, but for Milly. She is conquered. Her mother's heart goes out to him in his trouble; for she knows too well his strong sense of honour to fear any wrong or harm from his unhappy love.

"Perhaps," she thinks, "he is marrying this girl to put another stronger bar between himself and Milly." There are tears in her eyes — ay, in her heart too — as she goes to him and puts her arm round his neck. " It shall be as you wish," she says, kissing him. " I will write to my new daugh ter-in-law this morning. "When do you wish her to come ?" " Oh, mother, really !" he exclaims, un able to realise this sudden change. " God bless you ! You have taken a great load off my mind." He does not dream that she too knows his secret, and she would not for the world that he should. " I will telegraph that I shall be up in time for dinner to-night, and to-morrow — no, the day after — I will bring her back. May I, mother ?" "Yes, my dear. And" (kindly) "you need not be afraid about her reception. DOLORES.

There is no fear of her being dull here, either, I daresay, as you will be with her." " Oh, as for that, she has been used to a dull life, and all this novelty is sufficient excitement. A thousand thanks again, dearest mother ! Why, how foolish I have been all this time, to be afraid to speak to you! If there were more mothers hke you, I think there would be a good many better fellows in the world — though " (laughing) "that sounds rather like a compliment to myself, doesn't it?. But" (with a sigh), " heaven save the mark ! — that was the last thought in my mind." A few hours later Guy takes leave of his mother, and starts for town. He occupies the journey up with making plans for the future. "What a fool I was," he says, over and over again, to himself, ' ' to feel so certain that my mother would not come round !