It was five years before the coming home, and the going away of Bobbie ceased to be the principal event of the year, both at “White Point” and “Grey Cliffs,” and in fact to the whole neighborhood, and from the date of one arrival until the next all events and happenings were reckoned, for a truly royal time was made of these home-comings; and merry-makings such as never will be the same again, were indulged in to an unlimited degree. From morn till night was one continual round of pleasure, and nothing was ever too much trouble if it contributed to the young people’s enjoyment.
“He works so hard all during the session,” said Bobbie’s mother, when his father was mildly remonstrating on the unceasing frolicking. “You know how splendidly he has done at school, how he never fails at anything, and now we must let him have all the relaxation he needs, poor dear, and there can possibly be no harm, for Dorothy is always along.”
Her husband smiled a little as he stooped to fasten his stirrup straps. “Yes, fortunately there is Dorothy, and if it were not for her I wouldn’t be quite so sure of all those good reports we’ve been getting. He knows there would be no letter without them, and no letter would be Bobbie’s worse punishment.”
They looked at each other and laughed softly, and then he stooped over and kissed her.
It was his fourth Christmas holiday that Bobbie noticed a great change in Dorothy. He was greatly changed himself—stronger, taller, and straighter than ever, yet with more grace and ease, and the polish that comes with constant contact with gentlemen of his own class, and through it all ran the old, sweet charm that made all who came near him love him. The strong will of which he was possessed was evidenced more than ever in the firm lines about his mouth, but Bobbie himself did not realize this, he saw only the change in Dorothy.
It was Christmas-eve, and the night of the annual big party given in his and his friends’ honor. He had not seen her since he had gotten home. He had ridden over early in the morning and later, in the afternoon, and each time he had been told she was too sick to see him, but was trying to get well enough to come over at night, and now, as he stood watching the different people enter, he was full of miserable uncertainty as to her coming; and if she didn’t, why, what was the use of all this to do? He had brought home six of his college chums for the holidays, and a finer looking set of young men would be hard to find, thought Mr. Tayloe, as he watched them grouped together near the huge fire-places in the big parlors now a blaze of light, and filled, in every niche and corner, with Christmas greens. Over the doors and on the walls, and banked about the mantels were great festoons of holly, while a mass of foliage out in the beautiful old hall hid completely from sight the musicians stationed behind it. Through the opened doors could be seen the people going up the wide stairs to leave their wraps, and now they were coming in, and Bobbie and the boys had to take their positions by Mrs. Tayloe for awhile, and very soon the rooms were crowded with all the country folks and many strangers besides, and still no sign of Dorothy. Bobbie was beginning to get restless. He had a cordial, merry greeting for all, but his eyes were constantly watching the staircase. What if, after all, she did not come! Presently his heart gave a great bound—nobody but Dorothy held her head like that, though all he could see was a mass of soft, white, fluffy stuff that enveloped from head to foot the figure trying hard to get up the stairs, but who at every step was stopped and spoken to by others coming or going.
Presently she was in the room, and Bobbie wanted to push everybody aside and go to her and take her away—away from all this noise and music and crowd, and have her to himself; but, instead, he never moved an inch, only his face grew white, and he was ashamed of the furious beating of his heart. She was trying to come with her father, whose arm she held, to speak to his mother and the rest; but immediately she was surrounded and almost hopelessly entangled as she laughingly tried to make her way through the crowd. Bobbie leaned carelessly against the mantel and awaited her coming with apparent quiet. She was a revelation to him to-night. Surely it must be another Dorothy! The one he had left in the early fall was a girl—this one was a woman. Bobbie did not know where the charm lay; he saw it all in a flash—the long dress, the different arrangement of the hair, and the manner that comes with the wearing, filled him with entirely new sensations. Was she going to be changed too? On she came, with her father and numerous followers, and soon she stood near enough for Bobbie to see her in her quaint, short-waisted gown of sheerest, daintiest white, over its satin slip, cut low in the neck, and with great puffs for sleeves. Surely no head was ever poised like Dorothy’s, and no hair was ever so soft, or curled so bewitchingly around a forehead and neck as did that which escaped from the loose coil at the back of her head. She wore no jewels or ornaments of any kind, but in her hands she carried the huge bouquet of violets he had ordered from the city and sent to her during the day. How exactly they matched her eyes, he thought, as he watched her—those wondrously beautiful eyes, with their wondrously beautiful lashes! She had spoken to his mother, and now she turned to Bobbie: “I’ve had to fight my way up here,” she said laughingly, holding out her hand to him in the sweet, frank way of old, “but I suppose no penalty is too great to pay for the privilege of speaking to so many college men;” and Bobbie, bending low over the hand he held in his own, had scarce time for a word before she was speaking to his chum next to him, and in a minute all the boys were crowding around and holding out their hands to grasp hers. A moment more and she would be gone. Bobbie slipped out of the line and touched her arm. “Dorothy,” he whispered, “give me your card: these fellows will get every dance before I have a chance.”
His tone was the old imperious one he used as a child when determined to have his way. Dorothy looked in his face for a moment, hesitated, smiled, and then handed her card to him, and recklessly he scribbled here and there, until she protested, and made him give it back. Now she was gone, and he could see her dancing down the long room, while dozens of eyes watched her eagerly, for Dorothy was fair to look upon to-night.
She afterwards called it her “coming-out party,” and in truth it could in reason be so called. She was a woman now—a very young one, it is true, but full of all a woman’s witchery and grace, and Bobbie was by no means the only one who loved her.
The last year and a half at college was a restless time for Bobbie, for his ambition admitted of nothing less than first honors, that she might be proud of him, and through it all he was possessed by a nameless dread. Suppose she should not give him now the old love she bore him in their childhood days! Their letters were always friendly and kind in tone, but after awhile there was a formality in them which both tried to overlook, yet neither succeeded in banishing, and they wrote of everything else but the one thing dearest to their hearts.
The night Bobbie took his degree was a very proud and happy one, for he was given the blissful surprise of knowing Dorothy was there with his father and mother. “At the last moment father allowed me to come,” she had managed to whisper, and then she had to leave him; and before the evening was done, he almost angrily wished she had not come. Scarce a word could he have with her before she was literally taken away from him by a score of men, who were waiting to claim a dance in the ball that followed the closing exercises of the year. It was late, very late, before he got her away from them all. She was standing in a corner of the room, as usual, surrounded by a gay group, when he walked up and placed her hand upon his arm, and led her away from the crowd. “I’m sorry to break you up,” he said, nodding to the others, standing stock still with amazement at his nerve, “but I believe this dance is mine,” and he walked off with Dorothy, quite as if she already belonged entirely to him.
“We are spoiling you to-night, Bobbie,” she said, laughing indulgently; “even I am letting you do as you choose, but I just wonder if you expect to keep it up—if you think that we are always going simply to follow your lead?”
“No,” he answered, “no; after to-night you will lead, and I suppose I will do the following; but to-night—we do not want to dance—I want to get you away from all this crowd.”
He led her through the door, and down the length of the veranda, until they came to a quiet corner, far removed from the ball-room and the gay company within. There was a seat way back in the shadow, and he pushed her gently in it, while he stood leaning against the railing, tearing the blossoms off the vine that made so beautiful a drapery from the floor quite to the top above. The moon was gloriously bright, but only in faint glints could it be seen through the mass of leaves, and as Dorothy leaned back its glimmer shone upon her hair, and for a moment rested lovingly there, and then danced wickedly and distractingly up and down, until it was all Bobbie could do to keep from kissing it, to make it still. He had loved Dorothy all his life, and now that he wanted to tell her so, as man to woman, his courage failed him. Faint strains of the rhythmic waltz reached them, and Dorothy leaned back, with her hands loosely clasped in her lap, and turned her face so that he could not see it well.
Dorothy.
“What is it—are you tired?” he asked, uneasily, sitting beside her. “Ah, Dorothy, you know it so well already!—know that always I have loved you—and yet you make it so hard for me to tell you. You have held me off and made me afraid to speak, but to-night—but to-night you must tell me, Dorothy. Will you let the others go, and will you marry me, now I am through college? Answer me, Dorothy, don’t make me wait.” He had his arms around her, and he drew her face again to his, while his breath came fast and hard, and he could distinctly hear the beating of his heart.
Dorothy looked at him for just a moment, and then she tried to free herself from his arms. “Not until you answer me,” he said, holding her tighter. “What is it?”
“I wonder why men are so stupid,” she said, laughing a little unsteadily, “you take so long to find out what women know so soon. I like the others, but—ah, Bobbie, you know”—and she looked up in his face and touched it shyly with her hand.
And Bobbie knew, knew that of all men on earth he was the most supremely blessed, and he could not speak for the wonderful happiness that filled him. He could only hold her in his arms and kiss the quivering, trembling lips, and the beautiful violet eyes and the moon glints in her hair.