No doubts troubled Dolly's mind during that drive, about dress or anything else. Her dress she had forgotten indeed; and the pain of leaving her mother at home was forced to give way before the multitude of new and pleasant impressions. That drive was pure enjoyment. The excitement and novelty of the occasion gave no doubt a spur to Dolly's spirits and quickened her perceptions; they were all alive, as the carriage rolled along over the smooth roads. What could be better than to drive so, on such an evening, through such a country? For the weather was perfect, the landscape exceedingly rich and fair, the vegetation in its glory. And the roads themselves were full of the most varied life, and offered to the little American girl a flashing, changing, very amusing and abundantly suggestive scene. Dolly's eyes were incessantly busy, yet her lips did not move unless to smile; and her father for a long time would not interrupt her meditations. Good that she should forget herself, he thought; if she were recalled to the practical present maybe she would grow nervous. That was the only thing Mr. Copley was afraid of. However, for him to keep absolute silence beyond a limited time was out of his nature.
"Are you happy, Dolly?" he asked her.
"Very happy, father! If only mother was with us."
"Ah, yes, it would have been rather pleasanter for you; but you must not mind that."
"I am afraid I do not mind it enough, I am so amused with everything. I cannot help it."
"That's right. Now, Dolly"
"Yes, father"
"I should like to know what you have been thinking of all this while. I have been watching the smiles coming and going."
"I do not know that I was thinking at all—until just now; just before you spoke."
"And of what then?"
"It came to me, I do not know why, a question. We have passed so many people who seemed as if they were enjoying themselves,—like me;—and so many pretty-looking places, where people might live happy, one would think; and the question somehow came to me, father, what I am going to do with my own life?"
"Do with it?" said Mr. Copley astonished; "why enjoy it, Dolly. Every day as much as to-day."
"But perhaps one cannot enjoy life always," said Dolly thoughtfully.
"All you can, then, dear; all you can. There is nothing to preventyouralways enjoying it. You will have money enough; and that is the main thing. There is nothing to hinder your enjoying yourself."
"But, father, don't you think one ought to do more with one's life than that?"
"Yes; you'll marry one of these days, and so make somebody else enjoy himself."
"What would become of you and mother then?" asked Dolly shyly.
"We'd get along," said Mr. Copley. "What we care about, is to see you enjoy life, Dolly. Are you enjoying it now, puss?"
"Very much, father."
"Then so am I."
The carriage left the high road here, and Dolly's attention was again, seemingly, all bestowed on what she saw from its windows. Her father watched her, and could not observe that she was either timid or excited in the prospect of the new scenes upon which she was about to enter. Her big brown eyes were wide open, busy and interested, at the same time wholly self-forgetful. Self-forgetful they remained when arriving at the house, and when she was introduced to the family; and her manner consequently left nothing to be desired. Yet house and grounds and establishment were on a scale to which Dolly hitherto had been entirely unaccustomed.
There was a small dinner party gathered, and Dolly was taken in to table by young Mr. St. Leger, the son of their host. Dolly had seen this gentleman before, and so in this concourse of strangers she felt more at home with him than with anybody. Young Mr. St. Leger was a very handsome fellow; with regular features and soft, rather lazy, blue eyes, which, however, were not insipid. Dolly rather liked him; the expression of his features was gentle and good, so were his manners. He seemed well pleased with his choice of a companion, and did his best to make Dolly pleased also.
"You are new in this part of the world?" he remarked to her.
"I am new in any part of the world," said Dolly, dimpling, as she did when something struck her funnily. "I am not very old yet."
"No, I see," said her companion, laughing a little, though in some doubt whether he or she had made the fun. "How do you like us? Or haven't you been long enough here to judge?"
"I have been in England a good many months."
"Then is it a fair question?"
"All questions are fair," said Dolly. "I like some things here very much."
"I should be delighted to know what."
"I'll tell you," said Dolly's father, who sat opposite and had caught the question. "She likes an old suit of armour or a collection of old stones in the form of an arch or a gateway; and in the presence of the crown jewels she was almost as bad as that Scotch lady who worshipped the old Regalia of the northern kingdom. Only it was the antiquity that Dolly worshipped, you know; not the royalty."
"What is there in antiquity?" said Mr. St. Leger, turning his eyes again curiously to Dolly. "Old things were young once; how are they any better for being old?"
"Not any better; only more interesting."
"Pray tell me why."
"Think of what those old stones have seen."
"Pardon me; they have notseenanything."
"Think of the eyes that have seen them, then. Or stand before one of those old suits of armour in the Tower, and think where it has been. Think of the changes that have come; and what a strange witness it is for the things that were and have passed away."
"I am more interested in the present," said the young man. "I perceive you are romantic."
Dolly was silent. She thought one of those halls of old armour in the Tower was in its attractions very far beyond the present dinner table; although indeed this amused her. Presently her companion began again and gave her details about all the guests; who they were, and how they happened to be there; and then suddenly asked her if she had ever been to the races? Dolly inquired what races; and was informed that the Epsom races were just beginning. Would she like to go to them? was inquired eagerly.
Dolly had no idea what was the real character of the show she was asked about; and she answered in accordance with her general craving to see everything. Nevertheless she was somewhat surprised, when the gentlemen came up from dinner, to hear the proposition earnestly made; made by both Mr. and Mrs. St. Leger; that she and her father should go with them the next day to the Epsom races; and she was greatly astonished to hear her father agree to the proposal, although the acceptance of it involved the staying another day away from home and the sleeping a second night at the St. Leger place. But Dolly was not consulted. The family expressed their pleasure in undoubted terms, and young Mr. St. Leger's blue eyes had a gleam of satisfaction in them, as he assured Dolly that now they would "show her something of interest in the present."
Dolly was the youngest guest in the house, and by all rules the one entitled to least consideration; yet she went to sleep that night in a chamber the most superb she had ever inhabited in her life. She looked around her with wonder at the richness of every matter of detail, and a little private query howshe, little Dolly Copley, came to be so lodged? Her mother would have no reasonhereto complain of want of due regard. And all the evening there had been no such complaint to make. People had been very kind, Dolly said to herself as she was falling asleep. But howcouldher father have consented to stay another day, for any races in the world—leaving her mother alone? But she could not help it; and no doubt the next day would be amusing; to-day had been amusing—and Dolly's thoughts went no further.
The next morning everybody drove or rode to the races. Dolly herself was taken by young Mr. St. Leger, along with one of his sisters, in an elegant little vehicle for which she knew no name. It was very comfortable, and they drove very fast—till the crowd hindered them, that is; and certainly Dolly was amused. All was novel and strange to her; the concourse, the equipages, the people, the horses, even before they arrived at the race grounds. There a good position was secured, and Dolly saw the whole of that day's performances. Mr. St. Leger attended to her unremittingly; he and his sister explained everything, and pointed out the people of mark within their range of vision; his blue eyes grew quite animated, and looked into Dolly's to see what they could find there, of response or otherwise. And Dolly's eyes were grave and wide-awake, intent, very busy, very lively, but how far they were brightened with pleasure he could not tell. They were bright, he saw that; fearless, pure, sweet eyes, that yet baffled him; no trace of self-consciousness or self-seeking was to be found in them; and young St. Leger stood a little in awe, as common men will, before a face so uncommon. He ventured no direct question for the satisfying of his curiosity until they had returned, and dinner was over. Indeed he did not venture it then; it was his father who asked it. He too had observed the simple, well-bred, lovely little maiden, and had a little curiosity on his own part.
"Well, Miss Copley—now you have seen Epsom, how do you like it?"
Dolly hesitated. "I have been very much interested, sir, thank you," she said gravely.
"But how do youlikeit? Did you enjoy it?"
Dolly hesitated again. Finally smiled and confessed. "I was sorry for the horses."
"Sorry for the horses!" her host repeated. "What for?"
"Yes, what for?" added the younger St. Leger. "They were not ill treated."
"No,—" said Dolly doubtfully, "perhaps not,—but they were running very hard, and for nothing."
"For nothing!" echoed Mr. St. Leger again. "It was for a good many thousand pounds. There's many a one was there to-day who wishes they had run for nothing!"
"But after all, that is for nothing," said Dolly. "It is no good to anybody."
"Except to those that win," said the old gentleman. "Except to those that win!" Probablyhehad won.
Dolly wanted to get out of the conversation. She made no answer. Another gentleman spoke up, and opined, were it not for the money won and lost, the whole thing would fail of its attraction. It would be no sport indeed, if the horses ranfor nothing. "Do you have no races in—a—your country?" he asked Dolly.
Dolly believed so. She had never been present at them.
"Nothing like Epsom," said her father. "We shall have nothing to show like that for some time. But Dolly takes practical views. I saw her smiling out of the windows, as we drove along, coming here yesterday; and I asked her what she was thinking of? I expected to hear her say, the beauty of the plantations, or the richness of the country, or the elegance and variety of the equipages we passed. She answered me she was thinkingwhat she should do with her life!"
There was a general gentle note of amusement audible through the room, but old Mr. St. Leger laughed out in a broad "ha, ha."
"What did you conclude, my dear?" said he. "What did you conclude? I am interested to know."
"I could not conclude then, sir," said Dolly, bearing the laugh very well, with a pretty little peach-blossom blush coming upon her cheeks.
"'Tisn't difficult to know," the old gentleman went on, not unkindly watching Dolly's face play. "There is one pretty certain lot for a pretty young woman. She will manage her household, take care of her husband, and bring up her children,—one of these days."
"That is not precisely the ambition of all pretty young women," remarked one of the party; while Mrs. St. Leger good humouredly drew Dolly down to a seat beside her and engrossed her attention.
"You meant the words perhaps in another sense, more practical, that your father did not think of. You were thinking maybe what profession you would follow?"
"I beg your pardon, ma'am!" said Dolly, quite perplexed now. "How do you mean, profession?"
"Yes; perhaps you were thinking of being a governess some day, or a teacher, or something of that sort; were you?"
Dolly's face dimpled all over in a way that seemed to young St. Leger the very prettiest, winningest, most uncommon loveliness that his eyes had ever been blessed with. Said eyes were inseparable from Dolly; he had no attention but for her looks and words; and his mother knew as much, while she too looked at the girl and waited for her answer.
"Oh no," Dolly said; "I was not thinking of any such thing. My father does not wish me to do anything of the kind."
"Then whatdidyou mean, my dear?"
Dolly lifted a pair of sweet grave eyes to the face of her questioner; a full, rather bloated face, very florid; with an expression of eyes kindly indeed, but unresting, dissatisfied; or if that is too strong a word, not content. Dolly looked at all this and answered—
"I don't want to live merely to live, ma'am."
"Don't you? What more do you want? To live pleasantly, of course; for not to dothat, is not what I call living."
"I was not thinking of pleasant living. But—I do not want my life to be like those horses running to-day," said Dolly smiling; "for nothing; of no use."
"Don't you think a woman is of use and fills her place, my dear, who looks after her household and attends to her family, and does her duty by society?"
"Yes," said Dolly hesitating,—"but that is not enough." The girl was thinking of her own mother at the moment.
"Not enough? Why, yes, it is enough. That is a woman's place and business. What else would you do?"
Dolly was in some embarrassment now. She must answer, for Mrs. St. Leger was waiting for it; but her answer could not be understood. Her eye took in again the rich appliances for present enjoyment which filled the room, above, below, and around her; and then she said, her eye coming back—
"I would like my life to be good for something that would not pass away."
"Not pass away? Why, everything passes away, my child" (and there came a sigh here),—"in time. The thing is to make the best of them while we have them."
Is that all? thought Dolly, as she noticed the untested, rather sad look of her hostess's face; and she wished she could say more, but she dared not. Then young Mr. St. Leger bent forward, and inquired what she could be thinking of that wouldnotpass away? His mother saw the look with which his blue eyes sought the face of the little stranger; and turned away with another sigh, born half of sympathy with her boy's feeling and half of jealousy against the subject of it. Dolly saw the look too, but did not comprehend it. She simply wondered why these people put her through the catechism so?
"What could you be thinking of?" St. Leger repeated, sliding into the seat his mother had quitted.
"Don't you know anything that will last?" Dolly retorted.
"No," said the young man, laughing. "Do you? Except that I have heard that 'A thing of beauty is a joy forever.'"
This, which was a remarkable flight for St. Leger, was lost upon simple Dolly.
"Oh, I know that is true," she answered; "but that is just a way of speaking. It would not be a joy to me, if I had not something else to hold to. I am sorry for you."
"Really? I wish I could think that. It would be delightful to have you sorry for me."
"It would be much better not to need it."
"I don't know about that. Perhaps, if you were very sorry for me, you would try to teach me better."
"Perhaps; but I shall not have time. I suppose we shall go away very early in the morning."
"I should like to show you the gardens, first."
"Haven't we seen them?"
"Why, of course not. All that you have seen is a little shrubbery and a bit of the park. Suppose we go over the gardens in the morning?"
"I am sure we shall return home immediately after breakfast."
"Before breakfast then? Why not?"
This plan went into effect. It was an occasion of great pleasure to both parties. No better time could be for seeing the utmost beauty of the flowers; and Dolly wandered in what was to her a wilderness of an enchanted land. Breakfast was forgotten; and young St. Leger was so charmed with this perfectly fresh, simple, and lively nature, that he for his part was willing to forget it indefinitely. Dolly's utter delight, and her intelligent, quick apprehension, the sparkle in her eye, the happy colour in her cheeks, made her to his fancy the rarest thing he had ever seen. The gardener, who was summoned to give information of which his young master was not possessed, entertained quite the same opinion; and thanks to his admiring gratification Dolly went back to the house the possessor of a most superb bouquet, which he had cut for her and offered through Mr. St. Leger.
There were some significant half smiles around the breakfast table, as the young pair and the flowers made their appearance. St. Leger braved them; Dolly did not see them. Her sweet eyes were full of the blissful enchantment still. Immediately after breakfast, as she had said, her father took leave.
Mrs. Copley had awaited their coming in a mood half irritation, half gratification. The latter conquered when she saw Dolly.
"Now tell me all about it!" she said, before Dolly even could take off her bonnet.
"She went to the races," said Mr. Copley.
"That's a queer place for Dolly to go, Mr. Copley."
"Not at all. Everybody goes that can go."
"I think it's a queer place for young ladies to go," persisted the mother.
"It is a queer place enough for anybody, if you come to that; but no worse for them than for others; and it is they make the scene so pretty as it is."
"I can't imagine how there should be anything pretty in seeing horses run to death!" said Mrs. Copley.
"I just said it is the pretty girls that give the charm," said her husband. "ThoughIcan see some beauty in a fine horse, and in good riding; and they understand riding, those Epsom jockeys."
"Jockeys!" his wife repeated. "I don't want to hear you talk about jockeys, Mr. Copley."
"I am not going to, my dear. I give up the field to Dolly."
"Mother, the first thing was the place. It is a most beautiful place."
"The race-ground?"
"No, no, mother; Mr. St. Leger's place. 'The Peacocks,' they call it."
"What do they give it such a ridiculous name for?"
"I don't know. Perhaps they used to have a great many peacocks. But the place is the most beautiful place I ever saw. Mother, we were half an hour driving from the lodge at the park gate to the house."
"The road so bad?"
"Solong, mother; think of it; half an hour through the park woods, until we carne out upon the great lawn dotted with the noblest trees you ever saw."
"Better than the trees in Boston common? I guess not," said Mrs. Copley.
"Those are good trees, mother, but nothing to these. These are just magnificent."
"I don't see why fine trees cannot grow as well on American ground as on English," said Mrs. Copley incredulously.
"Give them time enough," put in her husband.
"Time!"
"Yes. We are a new country, comparatively, my dear. These old oaks here have been growing for hundreds of years."
"And what should hinder them from growing hundreds of years over there? I suppose thegroundis as old as England; if Columbus didn't discover it all at once."
"The ground," said Mr. Copley, eyeing the floor between his boots,—"yes, the ground; but it takes more than ground to make large trees. It takes good ground, and favouring climate, and culture; or at least to be let alone. Now we don't let things alone in America."
"I knowyoudon't," said his wife. "Well, Dolly, go on with your story."
"Well, mother,—there were these grand old trees, and beautiful grass under them, and cattle here and there, and the house showing in the distance. I did not like the house so very much, when we came to it; it is not old; but it is exceedingly handsome, and most beautifully furnished. I never had such a room in my life, as I have slept in these two nights."
"And yet you don't like it!" put in Mr. Copley.
"I like it," said Dolly slowly. "I like all the comfort of it; but I don't think it is very pretty, father. It's verynew."
"New!" said her father. "What's the harm of a thing's being new? And what is the charm of its being old?"
"I don't know," said Dolly thoughtfully; "but I like it. Then, mother, came the dinner; and the dinner was like the house."
"That don't tell me anything," exclaimed Mrs. Copley. "What was the house like?"
"Mother, you go first into a great hall, set all round with marble figures—statues—and with a heavy staircase going up at one side. It's all marble. But oh, the flower garden is lovely!"
"Well, tell me about the house," said Mrs. Copley. "And the dinner. Who was there?"
"I don't know," said Dolly; "quite a company. There were one or two foreign gentlemen; a count somebody and a baron somebody; there was an English judge, and his wife, and two or three other ladies and gentlemen."
"How did you like the gentlemen, Dolly?" her father asked here.
"I had hardly anything to do with them, except the two Mr. St. Legers."
"How did you likethem?I suppose, on your principle, you would tell me that you liked theoldone?"
"Never mind them," said Mrs. Copley; "go on about the dinner. What did you have?"
"Oh, everything, mother; and the most beautiful fruit at dessert; fruit from their own hothouses; and I saw the hothouses, afterwards. Most beautiful! the purple and white grapes were hanging in thick clusters all over the vines; and quantities of different sorts of pines were growing in another hothouse. I had a bunch of Frontignacs this morning before breakfast, father; and I never had grapes taste so good."
"Yes, you must have wanted something," said Mr. Copley; "wandering about among flowers and fruit till ten o'clock without anything to eat!"
"Poor Mr. St. Leger!" said Dolly. "But he was very kind. They were all very kind. If they only would not drink wine so!"
"Wine!" Mrs. Copley exclaimed.
"It was all dinner time; it began with the soup, and it did not end with the fruit, for the gentlemen sat on drinking after we had left them. And they had been drinking all dinner time; the decanters just went round and round."
"Nonsense, Dolly!" her father said; "you are unaccustomed to the world, that is all. There was none but the most moderate drinking."
"It was all dinner time, father."
"That is the custom of gentlemen here. It is always so. Tell your mother about the races."
"I don't like the races."
"Why not?"
"Well, tell me what they were, at any rate," said Mrs. Copley. "It is the least you can do."
"I don't know how to tell you," said Dolly. "I will try. Imagine a great flat plain, mother, level as far as the eye can see. Imagine a straight line marked out, where the horses are to run; and at the end of it a post, which is the goal, and there is the judges' stand. All about this course, on both sides, that is towards the latter part of the course, fancy rows of carriages, drawn up as close as they can stand, the horses taken out; and on these carriages a crowd of people packed as thick as they can find room to sit and stand. They talk and laugh and discuss the horses. By and by you hear a cry that the horses have set off; and then everybody looks to see them coming, with all sorts of glasses and telescopes; and everybody is still, waiting and watching, until I suppose the horses get near enough for people to begin to judge how the race will turn out; and then begins the fearfullest uproar you ever heard, everybody betting and taking bets.Everybodyseemed to be doing it, even ladies. And with the betting comes the shouting, and the cursing, and the cheering on this one and that one; it was a regular Babel. Even the ladies betted."
"Every one does it," said Mr. Copley.
"And the poor horses come running, and driven to run as hard as they can; beautiful horses too, some of them; running to decide all those bets! I don't think it is an amusement for civilised people."
"Why not?" said her father.
"It is barbarous. There is no sense in it. If the white horse beats the black, I'll pay you a thousand pounds; but if the black horse beats the white, you shall pay me two thousand. Is there any sense in that?"
"Some sense in a thousand pound."
"Lost"—said Dolly.
"It is better not to lose, certainly."
"But somebody must lose. And people bet in a heat, before they know what they ought to say; and bet more than they have to spare; I saw it yesterday."
"Youdidn't bet, Mr. Copley?" said his wife.
"A trifle. My dear, when one is in Rome, one must do as the Romans do."
"Did you lose?"
"I gained, a matter of fifty pounds."
"Who did you gain it from, father?"
"Lawrence St. Leger."
"He has no right to bet with his father's money."
"Perhaps it is his own. I will give you twenty pound of it, Dolly, to do what you like with."
But Dolly would have none of it. If it was to be peace money, it made no peace with her.
A few months later than this, it happened one day that Mr. Copley was surprised in his office by a visit from young St. Leger. Mr. Copley was sitting at a table in his own private room. It was not what you would call a very comfortable room; rather bare and desolate looking; a carpet and some chairs and desks and a table being the only furniture. The table was heaped up with papers, and desks and floor alike testified to an amount of heterogeneous business. Busy the Consul undoubtedly was, writing and studying; nevertheless, he welcomed his visitor. The young man came in like an inhabitant of another world, as he was; in spotlessly neat attire, leisurely manner, and with his blue eyes sleepily nonchalant at the sight of all the stir of all the world. But they smiled at Mr. Copley.
"You seem to have your bands full," he remarked.
"Rather. Don't I? Awfully! Secretary taken sick—confoundedly inconvenient." Mr. Copley went on writing as he spoke.
"There are plenty of secretaries to be had."
"Yes, but I haven't got hold of 'em yet. What brings you here, Lawrence? Not business, I suppose?"
"Not business with the American Consul."
"No. I made out so much by myself. What is it? I see all's right with you, by your face."
"Thank you. Quite so. But you can't attend to me just now."
"Go ahead," said Mr. Copley, whose pen did not cease to scribble. "I can hear. No time for anything like the present minute. I've gotthiscase by heart, and don't need to think about it. Go on, Lawrence. Has your father sent you to me?"
"No."
"Sit down, and tell me what I can do for you."
Mr. St. Leger sat down, but did not immediately comply with the rest of the invitation. He rested his elbow on the table, looked at Mr. Copley's pen for a few minutes, and said nothing; until Mr. Copley again glanced up at his face.
"I do not know that you can do anything for me," said the young man then; "only you can perhaps answer a question or two. Mr. Copley, would you like to have me for a son-in-law?"
"No," said the Consul shortly; "nor any other man. I'd as lieve have you as anybody, Lawrence."
"Thank you. I couldn't expect more. But you must allow somebody in that capacity, Mr. Copley."
"Must I? Depends on how much Dolly likes somebody."
"That is just what I want to find out about myself," said the young man eagerly. "Then you would not put any hindrance?"
"In the way of Dolly's happiness? Not if I know it. Butthat'sgot to be proved."
"You know, Mr. Copley, she would be happy with me."
"How do I know that? I know nothing of the kind. It all depends on Dolly, I tell you. What does she think about it?"
"That's just what I don't know and cannot find out. I have no chance. I cannot get sight of her."
"Her mother's sick, you see. It keeps Dolly at home."
"My mother has proposed several times to take Miss Copley out with her, and she will not go."
"She's very kind, and we are grateful; but Dolly won't leave her mother."
"So she says. Then how am I to see her, Mr. Copley? I can't expect her to like me if I never see her."
"I don't know, my boy. Wait till better times."
"Wait" is a word that lovers never want to hear; and Lawrence sat discontentedly watching the play of Mr. Copley's pen.
"You know it would be all right about the money," he said at length.
"Yes, yes; between your father and her father, I guess we could make it comfortable for you two. But the thing is all the while, what Dolly thinks of you."
"And how am I to find that out?"
"Can't tell, I declare. Unless you volunteer to become my secretary."
"Does your secretary live in your family?"
"Of course he does. One of us completely."
"Will you take me, Mr. Copley?"
"Yes, but you would never take the drudgery. It is not in your line."
"Try me," said the young man. "I'll take it at once. Will you have me, Mr. Copley? Butshemust not know what you take me for. I don't care for the drudgery. Will you let me come? On trial?"
"Why is the boy in earnest? This is Jacob and Rachel over again!"
"Not for seven years, I hope."
"No, I shall not stay in this old crib as long as that. The question will have to be decided sooner. We haven't so much time to spare as those old patriarchs. But Dolly must have time to make up her mind, if it takes seven years. She is a queer little piece, and usually has a mind of her own. About this affair she certainly will. I'll give Mrs. Copley a hint to keep quiet, and Dolly will never suspect anything."
Lawrence was so thoroughly in earnest that he insisted on going to work at once. And the next day he was introduced at the house and made at home there.
It was quite true that Mrs. Copley was unwell; the doctors were not yet agreed as to the cause. She was feeble and nervous and feverish, and Dolly's time was wholly devoted to her. In these circumstances St. Leger's coming into the family made a very pleasant change. Dolly wondered a little that the rich banker's son should care to do business in the American Consul's office; but she troubled her head little about it. What he did in the office was out of her sphere; at home, in the family, he was a great improvement on the former secretary. Mr. Barr, his predecessor, had been an awkward, angular, taciturn fourth person in the house; a machine of the pen; nothing more. Mr. St. Leger brought quite a new life into the family circle. It is true, he was himself no great talker; but his blue eyes were eloquent. They were beautiful eyes; and they spoke of kindness of heart, gentleness of disposition, and undoubted liking for his present companions. There was refinement too, and the habit of the world, and the power of comprehending at least what others spoke; and gentle as he was, there was also now and then a gleam which showed some fire and some persistent self-will; that amount of backbone without which a man's agreeable qualities go for nothing with women. It was pleasant, his respectful attention to Mrs. Copley; it was pleasant too the assistance he was to Mr. Copley's monologues; if he did not say a great deal himself, his blue eyes gave intelligent heed, and he could also now and then say a word in the right place. With Dolly he took very soon the familiar habit of a brother. She liked him, she liked to pour out his coffee for him, it amused her to hear her father talk to him, she was grateful for his kindness to her mother; and before long the words exchanged between themselves came in the easy, enjoyable tone of a thorough good understanding. I don't know but St. Leger would have liked a little more shyness on her part. Dolly was not given to shyness in any company; and as to being shy with him, she would as soon have thought of being on terms of ceremony with Berdan, the great hound that her father was so proud of. And poor St. Leger was more hopelessly in love every day. Dolly was so fresh and cool and sweet, as she came down to breakfast in her white wrapper; she was so despairingly careless and free; and at evening, dressed for dinner, she was so quiet and simple and graceful; it was another thing, he said to himself, seeing a girl in this way, from dancing with her in a cloud of lace and flowers in a crowded room, and talking conventional nothings. Now, on the contrary, he was always admiring Dolly's practical business ways; the quick eye and capable hand; the efficient attention she bestowed on the affairs of the household and gave to her father's and mother's comfort, and also not less to his own. And she was quaint; she moved curiosity. With all her beauty, she never seemed to think of her looks; and with all her spirit and sense, she never seemed to talk but when she had something to say; while yet, if anything in the conversation deserved it, it was worth while to catch the sparkle of Dolly's eye and see her face dimple. Nevertheless, she would often sit for a long time silent at the table, when others were talking, and remind nobody voluntarily of her presence.
Spring had come now, and London was filling; and Lawrence was hoping for some gaieties that would draw Dolly out into society, notwithstanding his secret confession about ball rooms. He wanted to see how she would bear the great world, how she would meet it; but still more he hoped to have some chance to make himself of importance to her. And then the doctors decided that Mrs. Copley must go into the country.
What was to be done? Mr. Copley could not quit London without giving up his office. To any distance Mrs. Copley could not go without him. The dilemma, which Lawrence at first had heard of with dismay, turned for his advantage; or he hoped so. His father owned a cottage in a pretty part of the country, not a great many miles from London, which cottage just then was untenanted. Mr. Copley could run down there any day (so could he); and Mrs. Copley would be in excellent air, with beautiful surroundings. This plan was agreed to, and Lawrence hurried away to make the needful arrangements with his father and at the cottage.
"Oh dear!" said Mrs. Copley, when all this was communicated to her,—"why can't we go home?"
"Father is not ready for that, mother," Dolly said somewhat sadly.
"Where is this place you are talking of?"
"Down in Berkshire. Mr. St. Leger says you will be sure to like it."
"Mr. St. Leger doesn't know everything. Is the house furnished?"
"I believe so. Oh, I hope it will be very pleasant, mother dear. It's a pretty place; and they say it will be very good for you."
"Who says so?"
"The doctors"
"Theydon't know everything, either. I tell you what I believe would do me good, Dolly, only your father never wants what I want, unless he wants it at a different time; I should like to go travelling."
"Travelling!—Where?" Dolly exclaimed and inquired.
"Anywhere. I want a change. I am so tired of London, I could die! I have swallowed dust and fog enough to kill me. I should like to go where there is no dust. That would be a change. I should like to go to Venice."
"Venice! So should I," said Dolly in a changed tone. "Well, mother, we'll go down first to this cottage in the country—they say it's delightful there;—and then, if it does you good, you'll be well enough, and we will coax father to take us to Italy."
"I don't care about Italy. I only want to be quiet in Venice, where there are no carts or omnibusses. I don't believe this cottage will do me one bit of good."
"Mother, I guess it will. At any rate, I suppose we must try."
"I wish your father could have been contented at home, when he was well off. It's very unlucky he ever brought us here. I don't see what is to become of you, for my part."
Dolly suppressed a sigh at this point.
"You know what the Bible says, mother. 'All things shall work together for good, to them that love God.'"
"I don't want to hear that sort of talk, Dolly."
"Why not, mother?"
"It don't mean anything. I would rather have people show their religion in their lives, than hear them talk about it."
"But, mother, isn't there comfort in those words?"
"No. It ain't true."
"O mother!Whatisn't true?"
"That. There is a difference between things, and there is no use trying to make out they're all alike. Sour isn't sweet, and hard ain't soft. What's the use of talking as if it was? I always like to look at things just as they are."
"But, mother!"—
"Now, don't talk, Dolly, but just tell me. What is the good of my getting sick just now? just now, when you ought to be going into company? And we have got to give up our house, and you and I go and bury ourselves down in some out-of-the-way place, and your father get along as he can; and how we shall get along without him to manage, I am sure I don't know."
"He will run down to see us often, mother."
"The master's eye wants to be all the while on the spot, if anything is to keep straight."
"But this is such a little spot; I think my eye can manage it."
"Then how are you going to take care of me?—if you are overseeing the place. And I don't believe my nerves are going to stand it, all alone down there. It'll be lonely. I'd rather hear the carts rattle. It's dreadful, to hear nothing."
"Well, we will try how it goes, mother; and if it does not go well, we will try somewhere else."
The house in town was given up, and Mr. Copley moved into lodgings. Some furniture and two servants were sent down to the cottage; but the very day when the ladies were to follow, Mr. Copley was taken possession of by some really important business. The secretary volunteered to supply his place; and in his company Mrs. Copley and Dolly made the little journey, one warm summer day.
Dolly had her own causes for anxiety, the weightier that they must be kept to herself. Nevertheless, the influence of sweet nature could not be withstood. The change from city streets and crowds to the green leafiness of June in the country, the quiet of unpaved roads, the deliciousness of the air full of scents from woodland and field, excited Dolly like champagne. Every nerve thrilled with delight; her eyes could not get enough, nor her lungs. And when they arrived at the cottage, Brierley Cottage it was called, she was filled with a glad surprise. It was no common, close, musty, uncomfortable little dwelling; but a roomy old house with plenty of space, dark oak wainscotings, casement windows with little diamond panes, and a wide porch covered with climbing roses and honeysuckle. These were in blossom now, and the air was perfumed with their incomparable sweetness. Round the house lay a small garden ground, which having been some time without care looked pretty wild.
Dolly uttered her delight as the party entered the porch. Mrs. Copley passed on silently, looking at everything with critical eyes.
"What a charming old house, mother! so airy and so old-fashioned, andeverythingso nice."
"I am afraid there is not much furniture in it," remarked the secretary.
"We don't want much, for two people," said Dolly gaily.
"But when your father brings a dinner party down," said Mrs. Copley; "how does he suppose we shall manage then? You must have chairs for people to sit on."
Dolly did not answer; it had struck her that her father had no intention of bringing dinner parties down, and that he had made his arrangements with an evident exclusion of any such idea. He had thought two women servants enough. For the rest, leaving parties out of consideration, the house had a rambling supply of old furniture, suiting it well enough; it looked pretty, and quaint, and cool; and Dolly for her part was well content.
They went over the place, taking a general survey; and then Mrs. Copley lay down on a lounge while supper was getting ready, and Dolly and Mr. St. Leger went out to the porch. Here, beyond the roses and honeysuckles, the eye found first the wild garden or pleasure ground. There was not much of it, and it was a mere tangle of what had once been pretty and sweet. It sloped, however, down to a little stream which formed the border of the property; and on the other side of this stream the ground rose in a grassy bank, set with most magnificent oaks and beeches. A little foot-bridge spanned the stream and made a picturesque point in the view, as a bridge always does. The sun was setting, throwing his light upon that grassy bank and playing in the branches of the great oaks and beeches. Dolly stood quite still, with her hands crossed upon her bosom, looking.
"The garden has had nothing done to it," said St. Leger. "That won't do. It's quite distressing."
"I suppose father never thought of engaging a gardener," said Dolly.
"We have gardeners to spare, I am sure, at home. I'll send over one to train those vines and put things in some shape. You'd find him useful, too, about the house. I'll send old Peters; he can come as well as not."
"Oh, thank you! But I don't know whether father would choose to afford a gardener," said Dolly low.
"He shall not afford it. I want him to come for my own comfort. You do not think I want your father to pay my gardener."
"You are very kind. What ground is that over there?"
"That? that is Brierley Park. It is a great place. The stream divides the park from this cottage ground."
"Can one go over the bridge?"
"Of course. The place is left to itself; nobody is at the house now."
"Why not?"
"I suppose they like some other place better," said St. Leger, shrugging his shoulders. "You would like to go and see the house and the pictures. The next time I come down I'll take you there."
"Oh, thank you! And may I go over among those grand trees? may I walk there?"
"Walk there, or ride there; you may do what you like; nobody will hinder you. If you meet anybody that has a right to know, you can tell him who you are. But don't go to the house till I come to go with you."
"You are very good, Mr. St. Leger," said Dolly gratefully. But then, as if shy of what he might next say, she turned and went in to her mother. Dolly always kept Mr. St. Leger at a certain fine, insensible distance. He seemed to be very near; he was really very much at home in the family; nevertheless, an atmospheric wall, felt but not seen, divided him from Dolly. It was so invisible that it was unmanageable; it kept him at a distance.