Ivy Compton-Burnett: Dolores

They clasped hands in silence; taking their leave in the manner of the many partings of the older time; and turned from each other with a quiet word of meeting on the morrow. Soulsby followed, as Dolores moved to the door; believing, without the faintest bitterness, that his own presence was forgotten. But the sensitive ear of blindness was skilled in the subtlest inflections of the language of the sounds of movement.

“Soulsby, my friend!” said Claverhouse, with an utterance of the last word which gave it a burden of eloquence. “This is not the least of the services you have done me.”

Soulsby turned, and grasped the hand that was held to him, and hastened after Dolores without a word.

They walked in silence through the streets. Dolores was living again with each pulse of her heart, the hour which seemed the undoing of the five hard years, whose every day was a day of bereavement; and Soulsby shrank from breaking her musing, or seeming to seek her confidence. He felt all the natural wonder on that time of the past, when the lives of Dolores and the playwright had mingled. He pondered with strong emotion and eagerness for fuller knowledge; speaking much to himself that could not pass his lips.

He spoke to himself of a scene in a country churchyard — feeling no flush on his cheeks, or quiver of personal pain at his heart — questioning simply the troubled way of the woman he loved with the love of a subject and a friend. So her history was sadder and nobler yet. But why had they suffered thus? Why had the years been spent by them thus — by him with his blindness forsaken, by her in the empty constraint of that parsonage home? He could not tell. The part played by the friend of his own youth — the slow-worded father — in the drama held from his knowledge, was hidden from him; and he did not understand. But there was to come understanding.

One evening, when the Huttons’ return to Millfield was at hand, he went to fetch Dolores from the playwright’s dwelling, where she spent many hours of each day; her father and sister believing the intercourse to be that of teacher and pupil. He was earlier than usual; and entering the room unperceived, stood for some moments watching.

Dolores was reading from the very manuscript which had defied his efforts; and Claverhouse was leaning towards her in eager listening, his face so free from the familiar signs of trouble, that the friend’s heart misgave him for the different future. He waited, listening, till the full-toned voice was silent.

“Ah I there is nothing good in it,” said Claverhouse, in his old vehement manner. “My time for work was past; and my heart was heavy, so that I lived too much in my own life. There is nothing good in it.”

“There is great good in it,” said Dolores, turning the pages with grave scrutiny. “You must give yourself to it again, and carry it on to its end. It is not like the work of your prime; but then it is not the work of your prime. It will have its own value for that.”

“Ah! it is good to be talked to as a thinking man, even if an old blind one,” said Claverhouse.

Soulsby’s heart smote him, for every loyally-meant assurance, which had wanted his heart’s sanction. He felt his spirit recoil before the coming time — the months of the failing life, with their burden of the old weariness, the old struggle to attain to gratitude, heavier for the knowledge of different days. That evening he sought a word with Dolores — a word long pondered, but postponed in trembling to the latest moment.

“Dolores,” he said, with the tone of uttering a sacred word, which marked his speaking of her name. “You will let me say a word to you?”

Dolores raised her face in silent sanction, struggling for the courage she had long been fostering for this moment of trial.

“It is only — only a few words — only one thing I have to say. Could you — you will make your home with my wife and — will make your sister’s home your own, until Sigismund Claverhouse — that is, as long as he is spared to us?”

Dolores’ face grew set; but she answered without pause, in words which by daily, lonely effort she had learned to utter for this answer.

“What of my father? I cannot leave him.”

“But his is the lesser need,” said Soulsby, with a solemness undisguised.

“But the greater claim,” said Dolores, her voice not argumentative, but sadly resigned.

“It might be for such a little while,” said Soulsby, with pleading as simple as a child’s.

“But it might be for years,” said Dolores.

“Well, if you choose to leave him,” said Soulsby, his manner altering, and his tones holding threat and tears; “you will be parted till his death — and wholly parted. You cannot write to him; for he is blind, and would spurn your words through another. You cannot see him, when you come to Sophia; for the emotion of meeting and parting would be dangerous in the state of his heart. Your meeting when the news of your going is broken, will be your last; and your parting will be a parting for both your lives. And you are to him — well, why should I tell you what you are to him?”

“I cannot see it otherwise,” said Dolores, in a low voice that was almost a sob.

Soulsby took a step nearer.

“There would be nothing easier than for your father to find some one else to keep his home; and whom could he find to fill your place? The injury to him is unspeakably greater than the good to your father. Remember what life it is that we speak of; and think of what is in your hands. And it might be for such a little while.”

His tones again sank into the pathetic pleading; and Dolores turned her eyes from his, into the future — and wavered.

A footfall sounded in the passage, and passed up the staircase — a heavy, even footfall; which fell on Soulsby’s ear unheeded. But it had done its work.

“No, I cannot,” said Dolores, raising her eyes. “I cannot leave my father to strangers, while I give what I can give to one who is — who has no claim.” Her voice broke, but she resumed at once. “My father has his best years behind, and he has been through much. I am the only creature he has left to care for him. I shall return home with him.”

Soulsby was silent.

“You wonder at my strength?” said Dolores, sadly, interpreting his look. “You would not wonder if you knew my life. It has been a preparation for this.”

He was still silent.

“And it might have been a preparation for better?” she said, as if quoting his thought. “Does it seem to you, that I should think it seems otherwise?”

He turned and left her without further word. There was a task before himself that needed strength. On himself could be taken the breaking to his friend that which was upon him. Thus far he could save her.

He did it that evening — with blunt, short words, and a blanched face; feeling himself to be copying another courage.

The blind man heard him, and bowed his head. His first words were a shock to his friend. They were low and calm.

“How soon will she be with me?”

It was very soon. The spare figure was then at the door; and Soulsby found his steps were unsteady, as with averted eyes he hastened away. But a stranger might have witnessed that last meeting, and heard the words that were said. It was of the wonted length, and its words were quiet and few. Claverhouse sat without sign of emotion, and spoke of himself. He told of the feelings that would be his own, in the time that lay between that hour and the hour of death, seeming to feel he could bear to suffer what she knew. Dolores hardly moved her lips. She listened with all her powers yielded to the listening; with no sense of being dazed, or struggling to comprehend how matters stood — simply a clear consciousness of what was being done and suffered.