The next day's journey was uninteresting and slow. Mrs. Copley grew tired; and even dinner and rest at a good hotel failed to restore her spirits.
"How many more days will it be before we get to Dresden?" she desired to know.
"Keep up your courage, Mrs. Copley," said Lawrence. "Remember the Green vaults! We have some work before us yet to get there."
"We shall not get there to-morrow?"
"We shall hardly do more than reach Cassel to-morrow."
"I don't know anything about Cassel. Will it be nothing but sand all the way, like to-day? We have left everything pretty behind us in Holland."
"I think the way will mend a little," Lawrence allowed.
"What place is next to Cassel?"
"As our resting place for the night? I am afraid it will take us two days to get to Weimar."
"And then Dresden?"
"No, then Leipzig."
"Oh, I should like to see Leipzig," cried Dolly.
"What for?" said her mother. "I am sure all these places are nothing to us, and I think the country is very stupid. And I like travelling where I know what the people say. I feel as if I had got five thousand miles from anywhere. What do you suppose keeps your father, Dolly?"
"I don't know, mother."
"You may write and tell him, if he don't come to us in Dresden I shall go back. This isn'tmynotion of pleasure."
"But it is doing you good, mother."
"I hadn't anything I could eat this evening. If you don't mind, Dolly, I'll go to bed."
Dolly did mind, for she longed for a walk again among the strange scenes and people. As it was not to be had this time, she sat at her window and looked out. It was moonlight, soft weather; and her eye was at least filled with novelty enough, even so. But her thoughts went back to what was not novel. The day had been dull and fatiguing. Dolly's spirits were quiet. She too was longing for her father, with a craving, anxious longing that was more full of fear than of hope. And as she thought it over again, she did not like her position. Her mother was little of a shield between her and what she wanted to escape, Lawrence St. Leger's attentions; and she could but imperfectly protect herself. True, she knew she gave him no direct encouragement. Yet he was constantly with her, he had the right of taking care of her, he let her see daily what a pleasure it was, and she was not able to turn it into the reverse of pleasure. She could not repulse him, unless he pushed his advances beyond a certain point; and Lawrence was clever enough to see that he had better not do that. He took things for granted a little, in a way that annoyed Dolly. She knew she gave him no proper encouragement; nevertheless, the things she could not forbid might seem to weave a tacit claim by and by. She wished for her father on her own account. But when she thought of what was keeping him, Dolly's head went down in agony. "O father, father!" she cried in the depths of her heart, "why don't you come? how can you let us ask in vain? and what dreadful, dreadful entanglement it must be that has such power over you to make you do things so unlike yourself! Oh, what shall I do? what shall I do? I cannot reach him now—only by letters."
Mrs. Copley got up next morning in renewed spirits. "Dolly," she inquired while she was dressing, in which business Dolly always helped her,—"is anything settled between St. Leger and you?"
"Settled, mother? He is father's secretary,—at least so he calls himself,—taking care of us in father's absence. There is nothing else settled, nor to be settled."
"You know why he is here, child."
"Because father isn't, mother; and I should like to make the exchange as quickly as possible."
"What's the matter with him, Dolly?"
"The principal thing is, he won't take a hint."
"No, no; I mean, what fault do you find in him?"
"That, mother. Nothing else."
"He worships the ground you tread on."
"Mother, I think that is a pity. Don't you?"
"I think you ought to be very glad of it. I am. Dolly, the St. Legers areverywell off; he is rich, and his father is rich; and there is that beautiful place, and position, and everything you could desire."
"Position!" Dolly repeated. "Mother, I think I make my own position. At any rate, I like it better than his."
"O Dolly! the St. Legers"——
"They are not anything particular, mother. Rich bankers; that is all."
"And isn't that enough?"
"Well, no," said Dolly, laughing. "It would take a good deal more to tempt me away from you and father."
"But, child, you've got to go. And Mr. St. Leger is as fond of you as ever he can be."
"He will not break his heart, mother. He is not that sort. Don't think it."
"I don't care if he did!" said Mrs. Copley, half crying. "It is nothimI am thinking of; it is you."
"Thank you, mother," said Dolly, putting her arms round her mother's neck and kissing her repeatedly. "But I am not going to leave you for any such person. And I don't think so much of money as you do."
"Dolly, Dolly, money is a good thing."
"There is not enough of it in the world to buy me, mother. Don't try to fix my price."
The rest of that day Dolly was gay. Whether from the reaction of spirits natural to seventeen, or whether she were lightened in heart by the explicitness of her talk with her mother in the morning, she was the life of the day's journey. The road itself mended; the landscape was often noble, with fine oak and beech woods, and lovely in its rich cultivation; meadows and ploughed fields and tracts of young grain and smiling villages alternating with one another. There was no tedium in the carriage from morning to night. St. Leger and Rupert laughed at Dolly, and with her; and Mrs. Copley, in spite of chewing the cud of mortification at Dolly's impracticableness, was beguiled into forgetting herself. Sometimes this happy effect could be managed; at other times it was impossible. But more days followed, not so gay.
"I'm as tired as I can be!" was Mrs. Copley's declaration, as they were approaching Leipzig.
"We'll soon get to our hotel now," said Lawrence soothingly.
"'Tain't that," said Mrs. Copley; "I am tired of hotels too. I am tired of going from one place to another. I should like to stay still somewhere."
"But it is doing you good, mother."
"I don't see it," said Mrs. Copley. "And what do you mean by its doing me good, Dolly? What is good that you don't feel? It's like something handsome that you can't see; and if you call that good, I don't. I wonder if life's to everybody what it is to me!"
"Not exactly," said Lawrence. "Not everybody can go where he likes and do what he will, and have such an attendant handmaiden everywhere."
"Do what I will!" cried Mrs. Copley, who like other dissatisfied people did not like to have her case proved against her,—"much you know about it, Mr. St. Leger! If I had my will, I would go back to America."
"Then you would have to do without your handmaiden," said Lawrence. "You do not think that we on this side are so careless of our own advantage as to let such a valuable article go out of the country?"
It was said with just such a mixture of jest and earnest that Dolly could hardly take it up. The words soothed Mrs. Copley, though her answer hardly sounded so.
"I suppose that is what mothers have to make up their minds to," she said. "Just when their children are ready to be some comfort to them, off they go, to begin the same game on their own account. I sometimes wonder whether it is worth while to live at all!"
"But one can't help that," said Rupert.
"I don't see what it amounts to."
"Mother, think of the Dresden Green vaults," said Dolly.
"Well, I do," said Mrs. Copley. "That keeps me up. But when I have seen them, Dolly, what will keep me up then?"
"Why, Venice, mother."
"And suppose I don't like Venice? I sometimes think I shan't."
"Then we will not stay there, dear. We will go on to Sorrento."
"After all, Dolly, one can't keep always going somewhere. One must come to a stop."
"The best way is not to think of that till one is obliged to do it," said Lawrence. "Enjoy while you have to enjoy."
"That ain't a very safe maxim, seems to me," said Rupert. "One's rope might get twisted up."
"It is the maxim of a great many wise men," said Lawrence, ignoring the figure.
"Is it wise?" said Dolly. "Would you spend your money so, like your time? spend to the last farthing, before you made any provision for what was to be next?"
"No, for I need not. In money matters one can always take care to have means ahead."
"So you can in the other thing."
"How?" said Rupert, and "How?" said Lawrence, in the same breath. "You cannot always, as Mrs. Copley said, go on finding new places to go to and new things to see."
"I'd have what would put me above the need of that."
"What? Philosophy? Stoicism?"
"No," said Dolly softly.
"Have you discovered the philosopher's stone?" said Lawrence; "and can you turn common things into gold for your purposes?"
"Yes," said Dolly in the same way.
"Let us hear how, won't you? Is it books, or writing, or art perhaps? You are very fond of that, I know."
"No," said Dolly slowly; "and I cannot show it to you, either, Mr. St. Leger. It is like the golden water in the story in the Arabian Nights, which was at the top of a hill, and people went up the hill to get it; but on the way so many strange voices sounded in their ears that they were tempted to look round; and if they looked round they were turned to stone. So the way was marked with stones."
"And nobody got the golden water?"
"Yes. At last one went up, who being forewarned, stopped her ears and never looked round. She got to the top and found the golden water. We in these times give it another name. It is the water of life."
"Whatareyou talking about, Dolly?" said her mother.
"Must one go up the hill with one's ears stoppednow, to get the wonderful water?" Lawrence asked. Dolly nodded.
"And when you have got it—what then?"
"Then you have got it," said Dolly. "It is the water of life. And you have done with this dry wilderness that mother is complaining of, and you are recommending."
Lawrence stroked and pulled his moustache, as he might have done if a lady had spoken to him in polite Sanscrit. Rupert looked gravely out of the carriage window. Neither answered, and nobody spoke another word, till Mrs. Copley exclaimed, "There's Leipzig!"
"Looks sort o' peaceful now," remarked Rupert.
"Peaceful? Why, ain't the place quiet?" Mrs. Copley asked anxiously.
"Quiet enough," said Lawrence; "but there was a time, not so long ago, when it wasn't exactly so."
"When was that?"
"When all the uniforms of Europe were chasing through it," said Dolly; "some chased and some chasing; when the country was covered with armies; when a half a million of men or so fought a long battle here, and the suburbs of Leipzig were full of dead and wounded and sick and starving; there was not much peace then in or out of the city; though there was some rejoicing."
"Oh," said Mrs. Copley, "you mean"——
"When Napoleon was beaten here, mother."
"War's a mean thing!" said Rupert.
"That's not precisely the view civilised peoples take of it," said Lawrence with a slight sneer.
"True, though," said Dolly.
"Mean?" said Lawrence. "Do you think it was a mean thing for Germany to rise up and cast out the power that had been oppressing her? or for the other powers of Europe to help?"
"No; but very mean for the side that had given the occasion."
"That's as you look at it," said Lawrence.
"No, but how God looks at it. You cannot possibly think," said Dolly slowly, going back to her old childish expression,—"that He likes it."
Lawrence could not help smiling at this very original view. "Very few people that make war ask that question," he said.
"God will ask them, though," said Dolly, "why they did not. I think few people ask that question, Mr. St. Leger, about anything."
"It is not usual, except for a little saint here and there like you," he allowed.
"And yet it is the only question. There is nothing else to be asked about a matter; almost nothing else. If that is settled, it is all settled."
"If we were only all saints," Lawrence put in.
"Why are not we?"
"I don't know. I suppose everybody is not cut out for such a vocation."
"Everybody ought to be a saint."
"Do you mean that?" cried Rupert. "I thought,—I mean, I thought it was a special gift."
"Yes," said Dolly with a smile at him; "but God gives it to every one that wants it. And when the King comes, Mr. St. Leger, He will gather His saints to Him, and none others; don't yon want to be counted among them then?—I do!"
I don't know what had wrought up Dolly to this sudden burst; but she dropped her veil upon eyes all alight, while some soft dripping tears were falling from them like diamonds. Every one knows the peculiar brilliancy of a sunlit shower; and the two young men remained fairly dazzled. Rupert, however, looked very grave, while the other wore a cloud on his brow.
Dolly was as matter-of-fact as possible when she came out from under her veil again; and declared she should not go to a hotel in Dresden, but take a lodging.
"Why?" Lawrence enquired.
"Cheaper. And pleasanter. And much quieter. We shall probably have to stay several days in Dresden. We must get letters there."
"But you do not know where to go to find lodgings."
"Yes, I do. Or I shall. I hope so. I have sent for the address of the woman with whom Lady Brierley had lodgings a whole winter."
"Where do you expect to receive this address?"
"In Leipzig, I hope."
"Really, Dolly, you take a good deal upon you, considering how old you are," said her mother. "Don't you think Mr. St. Leger knows best?"
"No, mother, not for you and me. Oh,hecan go to a hotel. He will, of course."
However, this Mr. St. Leger did not desire. He was obliged to do it, nevertheless. The letter was found at Leipzig, the lodgings were found in Dresden, but not roomy enough to hold them all. Mrs. Copley and her daughter and their attendant Rupert were very comfortably accommodated; and to Dolly's great joy found themselves alone. Frau Wetterhahn was all obligingness, hearing Lady Brierley's name, and made them right welcome. This Frau Wetterhahn! She was the most lively, active, capable, talkative, bright-eyed, good-humoured, free and easy little woman that you can imagine. She was really capable, and cooked them a nice supper. Dolly had unpacked a few things, and felt herself at home, and the three sat down comfortably to their meal.
"Now, mother, dear," said Dolly, "this is pleasant!"
"Well," said Mrs. Copley, "I think it is. If you only hadn't sent Lawrence away!"
"He couldn't stay, mother. Frau Wetterhahn sent him away—not I. Change will be good for him. And for me too. I am going to make believe we are at home for a little while. And you are going to see the Green vaults; and I am going to see everything. And these rooms are so cosy!"
"Aren't you going to see the Green vaults too?"
"Indeed, I hope so. But we may have to wait a day or two, dear mother; that will be good, and you can have a rest."
"I'm sure I'm glad of it," said Mrs. Copley. "I am just tired of riding, and more tired yet of seeing everlasting new things. I am aching for something I've seen before in my life."
"Well, here's a cup of coffee, mother."
Mrs. Copley tasted.
"If you thinkthat'slike anything I used to have at home, I'm sorry for you!" she said with a reproachful look.
"Don't you like it? I do. I like it because it is different. But I think it is very good, mother. And look—here is some delicious bread."
"It's like no bread I ever saw till I came to Germany. Oh, mercy! why must folks have so many ways? I wonder how things will be at Venice!"
"Stranger than ever, mother, I'm afraid."
"Then I shall get tired of it. Isn't this a very roundabout way that we are going to Venice—round this way by Dresden?"
"Why, yes, mother, of course; but the Green vaults are here, and you were bound to see the Green vaults."
"I wouldn't have come, if I had known it was so far," said Mrs. Copley.
But she relished her supper, and was not nervous, and slept well; and Dolly was somewhat in hopes that Dresden was not a bad move after all. They had to wait, as she said, for letters, and for the sight of the glories that had attracted them hither. Several days passed by.
They passed in delights, for Dolly. Two mornings were spent in the great picture gallery. Mrs. Copley's desires and expectations having focussed upon the Green vaults, were hardly able to see anything else clearly; indeed, she declared that she did not think the wonderful Madonna was so very wonderful after all; no woman could stand upon clouds in that way, and as shewasa woman, she did not see why the painter did not exhibit her in a possible situation; and those little angels at the foot of the picture—where was the other half of them supposed to be? she did not like half of anything. But Dolly dreamed in rapture, before this and many another wonder of art. Mrs. Copley made processions round the rooms constantly, drawing, of course, St. Leger with her; she could not be still. But Dolly would stop before a picture and be immoveable for half an hour, drinking in pleasure and feeding upon knowledge; and Rupert generally took post behind her and acted as body-guard. What he made of the show, I do not know. Dolly asked him how he liked it? He said, "first-rate."
"Well, what do you think of it, Rupert?" Dolly asked gaily.
"Well, I guess I don't just see into it," was the dubious answer. "If these are likenesses of folks, they ain't like my folks."
"Oh, but they are not likenesses; most of them are not."
"What are they, then? and what is the good of 'em, if they don't mean anything?"
"They are out of people's imagination; as the painter imagined such and such persons might have looked, in such situations."
"How the painter imagined they might have looked!" cried Rupert.
"Yes. And they mean a great deal; all that was in the painter's mind."
"I don't care a red cent how a man fancies somebody looked. I'd like the real thing, if I could get it. I'd go some ways to see how the mother of Christdidlook; but you say that ain't it?"
"No," said Dolly, smiling.
Rupert surveyed the great picture again.
"Don't you think it is beautiful, Rupert?" Dolly pursued, curious to know what went on in his thoughts.
"I've seen as handsome faces—and handsomer," he said slowly; "and I like flesh and blood a long sight better than a painting, anyhow."
"Handsome?" said Dolly. "Oh, it is notthat—it is so much more!"——
"What is it, Miss Dolly?" said Lawrence, just then coming up behind her. "I should like to hear your criticism. Do put it in words."
"That's not easy; and it is not criticism. But I'll tell you how it seems to me; as the painting, not of anybody's features, but of somebody's nature, spirit. It is a painting of the spiritual character."
"Mental traits can be expressed in words, though," said Lawrence. "You'll go on, I hope?"
"I cannot," said Dolly. "It is not the lovely face, Mr. Babbage; it is thought and feeling, love and purity, and majesty—but the majesty of a person who has no thought of herself."
Dolly could not get out of that one room; she sat before the Raphael, and then stood fixed before the "Notte" or the "Magdalene" of Correggio; and would not come away. Rupert always attended on her, and Mrs. Copley as regularly made progresses through the rooms on Lawrence's arm, till she declared herself tired out. They were much beholden to Lawrence and his good offices these days, more than they knew; for it was past the season when the gallery was open to the public, and entrance was obtained solely by the influence of St. Leger's mediation and money; how much of the latter they never knew. Lawrence was a very good escort also; his address was pleasant, and his knowledge of men and things sufficient for useful purposes; he knew in general what was what and who was who, and was never at a loss. Rupert followed the party like a faithful dog, ready for service and with no opportunity to show it; Lawrence held the post of leader and manager now, and filled it well. In matters of art, however, I am bound to say, though he could talk more, he knew as little as Rupert himself.
"What is to be done to-morrow?" he asked, in the evening of that second day.
"We haven't got our letters yet," said Mrs. Copley. "I can't see why they don't come."
"So the Green vaults must wait. What else shall we do?"
"Oh," said Dolly, "might we not go to the gallery again?"
"Another day?" cried her mother. "Why, you have been there two whole mornings, child. Ain't that enough?"
"Mother, I could go two months, I think."
"Then you'd catch your death," said Mrs. Copley. "That inner room is very chill now. For my part, I do not want to see another picture again in days and days. My head swims with looking at them. I don't see what you find in the old things."
Dolly could not have told. She sighed, and it was agreed that they would drive about the city and its environs next day; Lawrence assuring them that it was one of the pleasantest towns in Germany. But the next morning early came the letters from Mr. Copley; one to his wife and one to Dolly.
Dolly read them both and pondered them; and was unsatisfied. They were rather cheerful letters; at the same time Mr. Copley informed his wife and daughter that he could not join them in Dresden; nor at any rate before they got to Venice. So much was final; but what puzzled and annoyed Dolly yet more than this delay was the amount of money he remitted to her. To her, for Mrs. Copley, as an invalid, it was agreed, should not be burdened with business. So the draft came in the letter to Dolly; and it was not half large enough. Dolly kept the draft, gave the letter to her mother to read, and sat in a mazed kind of state, trying to bring her wits to a focus upon this condition of affairs.
What was her father thinking of? It is one thing to be short of funds at home, in one's own country and in one's own house; it is bad enough even there; what is it when one is in a strange land and dependent upon the shelter of other people's houses, for which an equivalent must be paid in money? and when one is obliged to travel from one place to another, and every mile of the way demands another equivalent in money? Mr. Copley had sent a little, but Dolly knew it would by no means take them to Venice. What did he intend? or what did he expect her to do? Apply to Lawrence? Never! No, not under any pressure or combination that could be brought to bear. He would demand an equivalent too; or worse, think that it was guaranteed, if she made such an application. How could Mr. Copley place his child in such a predicament? And then Dolly's head went down in her hands, for the probable answer crushed her. He never would, he never could, but for yielding to unworthy indulgences; becoming entangled in low pleasures; taken possession of by the influence of unprincipled men. Her father!—Dolly felt as if her heart would break or her head burst with its burden of pain,—"Oh, a father never should let his child feel ashamed for him!" was the secret cry down in the depths of her heart. Dolly would not speak it out ever, even to herself, but it was there, all the same; and it tortured her, with a nameless, exquisite torture, under which she mentally writhed, without being able to get the least relief. Every surge of the old love and reverence broke on those sharp rocks of pain more hopelessly. "O father!—O father!" she cried silently, with a pitiful vain appeal which could never be heard.
And then the practical question came back, taking away her breath. What was she to do? If they did not stay too long in Dresden they would have enough money to pay their lodging-bill and go, she calculated, half the way to Venice. What then? And if Mr. Copley met them in Venice, according to promise, who would assure her that he would then come provided with the necessary funds? and what if he failed to come?
Dolly started up, feeling that she could not sit any longer thinking about it; her nerves were getting into a hard knot. She would not think; she busied herself in making her mother and herself ready for their morning's excursion. And Lawrence came with a carriage; and they set off. It was a lovely day, and certainly the drive was all it had promised; and Dolly barred off thought, andwouldlook and enjoy and talk and make others enjoy; so the first part of the day passed very well. Dolly would make no arrangements for the afternoon, and Mrs. Copley was able for no more that day.
But when the early dinner was over, Dolly asked Rupert to walk with her. Rupert was always ready, and gave a delighted assent.
"Are you going out again? and to leave me all alone?" said Mrs. Copley.
"You will be lying down, mother dear; you will not want me; and I have business on hand, that I must attend to."
"I don't see what business," said Mrs. Copley fretfully; "and you can't do anything here, in a strange place. You'd better get Mr. St. Leger to do it for you."
"He cannot do my work," said Dolly lightly.
"But you had better wait and take him along, Dolly. He knows where to go."
"So do I, mother. I want Rupert this time, and not Mr. St. Leger. You sleep till I come back."
Dolly had said she meant business, but at first going out things did not look like it. She went slowly and silently along the streets, not attending much to what she was passing, Rupert thought; till they arrived at an open spot from which the view of the river, with the bridge and parts of the town, could be enjoyed; and there Dolly sat down on a step, and still without speaking to Rupert, bent forward leaning on her knees, and seemed to give herself up to studying the beautiful scene. She saw it; the river, the picturesque bridge, the wavy, vine-clad hills, the unfamiliar buildings of the city, the villas scattered about on the banks of the Elbe; she saw it all under a clear heaven and a sunny light which dressed everything in hues of loveliness; and her face was fixed the while in lines of grave thought and gave back no reflection of the beauty. It had beauty enough of its own, Rupert thought; who, I must say, paid little heed to the landscape and watched his companion instead. The steady, intent, sweet eyes, how much grave womanliness was in them; how delicate the colour was on the cheek, and how tender were the curves of the lips; while the wilful, clustering curly hair gave an almost childish setting to the features whose expression was so very un-childish. For it was exceedingly grave. Dolly did see the lovely landscape, and it made her feel alone and helpless. There was nothing wonted or familiar; she seemed to herself somehow cast away in the Saxon capital. And truly she was all alone. Lawrence she could not apply to, her mother must not even be talked to; she knew nobody else. Her father had let her come on this journey, had sent her forth, and now left her unprovided even for the barest necessities. No doubt he meant that she should be beholden to Mr. St. Leger, to whom he could return the money by and by. "Or not at all," thought Dolly bitterly, "if I would give him myself instead. O father, could you sell me!" Then came the thought of the entanglements and indulgences which had brought Mr. Copley to do other things so unlike himself; and Dolly's heart grew too full. She could not bear it; she had borne up and fought it out all the morning; now feeling and truth must have a minute for themselves; her head went down on her hands and she burst into quiet sobs.
Quiet, but deep. Rupert, looking on in dismayed alarm, saw that this outbreak of pain had some deep grounded cause; right or wrong, it came from Dolly's very heart, and her whole nature was trembling. He was filled with a great awe; and in this awe his sympathy was silent for a time; but he could not leave the girl to herself too long.
"Miss Dolly," he said in a pause of the sobs, "I thought you were such a Christian?"
Dolly started, lifted her quivering, tearful face, and looked straight at him. "Yes," she said,—"what then?"
"I always thought religious folks had something to comfort them."
"Don't think they haven't," said Dolly. But there she broke down again, and it was a storm of a rain shower that poured from her eyes this time. She struggled to get the better of it, and as soon as she could she sat up again, brushing the tears right and left with her hands and speaking in a voice still half choked.
"Don't think they haven't! If I had notthat, my heart would just break and be done with it. But being a Christian does not keep one from suffering—sometimes." Her voice failed.
"What is the matter? No, I don't mean that you should tell me that; only—can't I do something?"
"No, thank you; nobody can. Yes, you are doing a great deal, Rupert; you are the greatest comfort to me. I depend upon you."
Rupert's eyes glistened. He was silent for sheer swelling of heart. He gulped down something—and went on presently.
"I was thinkin' of something my old mother used to say. I know I've heard her say it, lots o' times. I don't know what the trouble is, that's a fact—so maybe I hadn't oughter speak; butsheused to say that nothing could happen to Christians that would do 'em any real hurt."
"I know," said Dolly, wondering to herself how it could be true; "the Bible says so."—And then conscience rebuked her. "And itistrue," she said, lifting up her head; "everything is true that the Bible says, and that is true; and it says other things"——
"What?" said Rupert; more for her sake, I confess, than for his own.
"It says—'Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is staid upon Thee;' I was reading it this morning. You see I must be a very poor Christian, or I should not have doubted a minute. But even a Christian, and the best, must be sorry sometimes for things he cannot help," said Dolly.
"Then you were not troubled about yourself just now?" said Rupert.
"Yes, I was! I was indeed, in spite of all those words and a great many others. I believe I forgot them."
"I should think, if God gives people promises, He would like them to be trusted," said Rupert "That's whatwedo."
Dolly looked at him again as if he had said something that struck her; and then she got up, and taking his arm, set off this time at a business pace. She knew, she said, where to find what she wanted; however, she had gone out of her way, and it cost her some trouble and time to get to the place. It was a store of artists' materials, among other things; and here Dolly made careful purchases of paper, colours, and camel's-hair pencils. Rupert was reassured as to a suspicion that had crossed him, that part of Dolly's trouble might have been caused by want of means; seeing that she was buying articles of amusement with a free hand. Then Dolly went straight home.
All the rest of that afternoon she sat drawing. The next two days, the weather was unfavourable for going out, and she sat at her work persistently, whenever she was not obliged to be reading to her mother or attending upon her. The day following the long-planned visit to the Green vaults was made. In the evening Lawrence came to see them.
"Well, Mrs. Copley; tired?"—he began.
"I don't know which part of me's most tired," said the lady; "my eyes, or my head, or my feet."
"Did it pay, after all?"
"Pay! I wouldn't have missed it for a year's length of life! It went ahead of all I ever thought of or dreamt of. It was most like Aladdin's lamp—or what he saw, I mean, when he went down into fairyland. I declare, it was just as good."
"Only that you could not put things in your pockets. What would you have brought, Mrs. Copley, if it had been safe and allowable? The famous egg?"
"Mercy, no, Mr. St. Leger! I shouldn't have a minute's peace of my life, for fear I should lose it again."
"That's about how they say the first owner felt. They tell of him, that a lady once coaxed him to let her have the egg in her hand; and she kept it in her hand; and the prince forgot; and she drove back to Dresden with it."
"Where was he, the prince?"
"At some hunting castle, I believe. It was night before he found out his loss; and then he booted and spurred in hot haste and rode to Dresden in the middle of the night to fetch the egg from the lady again."
"What's the use of things that give folks so much trouble?" said Rupert.
"A matter of taste!" said Lawrence, shrugging his shoulders. "But I am glad to have been through those rooms myself; and I never should, but for you, Mrs. Copley. I suppose there is hardly the like to be seen anywhere else."
"What delicious things there were in the ivory room," said Dolly. "Those drunken musicians, mother, of Albert Dürer; and some of the vases; how beautiful they were!"
"I did not see the musicians," said Mrs. Copley. "I don't see how drunken musicians, or drunken anything, could be pretty. Odd taste, I think."
"Then perhaps you didn't like the piece with the fallen angels?" said Rupert. "That beat me!"
"How could there be peace with the fallen angels?" Mrs. Copley asked scornfully. At which, however, there was a great burst of laughter. "I liked best of all the room where the egg was, I believe. But the silver room was magnificent."
"I liked the ivory better than the silver, mother."
"Who does it all belong to?" Rupert asked.
"The reigning house of Saxony," Lawrence answered.
"The whole of it?"
"Yes."
"And that big picture gallery into the bargain?"
"Yes."
"That's bein' grasping, for any one family to have so much," was Rupert's conclusion.
"Well, you see," said Lawrence, "we get the good of it, and they have the care."
"I don't see how we get the good of it," said Mrs. Copley. "I suppose if I had one of those golden birds, now, with the eyes of diamonds; or one of those wonderfully chased silver caskets; I should have enough to keep me in comfort the rest of my life.Ithink things are queer, somehow. One single one of those jewels that lie heaped up there, and I should want for nothing more in this world. And there they lie and nobody has 'em."
"Do you want for anything now, mother dear?" asked Dolly. She was busy at a side table, arranging something in a little frame, and did not look up from her work.
"I should think I did!" was Mrs. Copley's rejoinder. "What don't I want, from breath up?"
"Here you have had one wish fulfilled to-day—you have seen the Green vaults—and now we are going to Venice to fulfil another wish—what would you have?"
"I don't like to think I am going away from here. I like Dresden best of all the places we've been in. And I would like to go through the Green vaults—but why they are called so, I cannot conceive—about once every month. I wouldneverget tired."
"So you would like to settle in Dresden?" said Lawrence. "I don't think it would be safe to let you go through the Green vaults often, Mrs. Copley; you would certainly be tempted too much for your principles. Miss Dolly, we had better get her away. Whendowe go, by the by?"
Instead of answering, Dolly rose up and brought him something to look at; a plain little oval frame of black wood within which was a head in light water colours.
"Mrs. Copley!" exclaimed Lawrence.
"Is it like?"
"Striking! capital. I'm not much of a judge of painting in general, but I know a friend's face when I see it; and this is to the life. To the life! Graceful, too. Where did you get it?"
"I got the paper and the paints at a little shop in—I forget the name of thestrasse;—and mother was here to my hand. Ecco!"
"Youdon'tmean you did it?" said Lawrence, while the others crowded near to look.
"I used to amuse myself with that kind of thing when I was at school, and I had always a knack at catching likenesses. I am going to try you, Rupert, next."
"Ah, try me!" cried Lawrence. "Will you? and we will stay in Dresden till it is done."
"Suppose I succeed," said Dolly softly,—"will you get me orders?"
"Orders?"
"Yes. To paint likenesses, like this, in miniature. I can take ivory, but I would not waste ivory on this one. I'll do yours on ivory if you like."
"Butorders?" said Lawrence, dumbfounded.
"Yes," said Dolly, nodding, "orders; and for as high pay as you think I can properly ask. Hush! say nothing to mother"——
"Is that like me?" Mrs. Copley asked, after studying the little picture.
"Capitally like you!" Lawrence cried.
"Then I've changed more'n I thought I had, that's all. I don't think I care about your painting me any more, Dolly, if that's the best you can do."
"Why, Mrs. Copley," said Lawrence, "it's beautiful. Exactly your turn of the head, and the delicate fresh colour in your cheeks. It's perfect!"
"Is it?" said Mrs. Copley in a modified tone. "So that's what you've been fussing about, Dolly, these two days. Well, take Mr. St. Leger next. I want to see what you'll make of him. She won't flatter you," the lady went on; "that's one thing you may lay your account with; she won't flatter you. But if we're going away, you won't have much chance; and, seems to me, we had better settle which way we are going."
Lawrence did not take up this hint. He sat gazing at the little miniature, which was in its way very lovely. The colours were lightly laid in, the whole was rather sketchy; but the grace of the delineation was remarkable, and the likeness was perfect; and Dolly had shown a true artist's eye in her choice of position and point of view.
"I did not know you had such a wonderful talent," he remarked.
Dolly made no answer.
"You'll do me next?"
"If you like my conditions."
"I do not understand them," he said, looking up at her.
"I want orders," Dolly said almost in a whisper.
"Orders? To paint things like this? For money? Nonsense, Dolly!"
"As you please, Mr. St. Leger; then I will stay here a while and get work through Frau Wetterhahn. She wants me to painther."
"You never will!"
"I'll try."
"As a favour then?"
Dolly lifted her eyes and smiled at the young man; a smile that utterly and wholly bewitched him. Wilful? yes, he thought it was wilful, but sweet and arch, and bright with hope and purpose and conscious independence; a little defiant, a great deal glad.
"Paint me," said he hastily, "and I'll give you anything you like."
Dolly nodded. "Very well," said she; "then you may talk with mother about our route."
Lawrence did talk with Mrs. Copley; and the result of the discussion was that the decision and management of their movements was finally made over to him. Whether it happened by design or not, the good lady's head was quite confused among the different plans suggested; she could understand nothing of it, she said; and so it all fell into Lawrence's hand. I think that was what he wanted, and that he had views of his own to gratify; for Dolly, who had been engaged with other matters this time, expressed some surprise a day or two after they set out, at finding herself again in Weimar.
"Going back the way we came?" she cried.
"Only for a little distance—a few stages," explained Lawrence; "after that it will be all new."
Dolly did not much care, nor know enough to correct him if he was going wrong; she gave herself up to hopeful enjoyment of the constantly varying new scenes and sights. Mrs. Copley, on the contrary, seemed able to enjoy nothing beyond the shortening of the distance between her and Venice. If she had known how much longer than was necessary Lawrence had made it!
So it happened that they were going one day down a pleasant road which led along a river valley, when an exclamation from Dolly roused her mother out of a half nap. "What is it?" she asked.
"Mother, such a beautiful, beautiful old church! Look—see how it sits up there grandly on the rock."
"Very inconvenient, I should think," said Mrs. Copley, giving a glance out of the carriage window. "I shouldn't think people would like to mount up there often."
"I believe," said Lawrence, also looking out now, "that must be a famous old church—isn't this Limburg?—yes. It is the cathedral at Limburg; a very fine specimen of its style, Miss Dolly, they say."
"What is the style? it's beautiful! Gothic?"
"No,—aw—not exactly. I'm not learned myself, really, in such matters. I hardly know a good thing when I see it—never studied antiquities, you know; but this is said, I know, to be a very good thing."
"How old? It does not look antiquated."
"Oh, it has been repaired and restored. But it is not Gothic, so it dates further back; what they call the Transition style."
"It is very noble," said Dolly. "Is it as good inside as outside?"
"Don't know, I declare; I suppose so. We might go in and see; let the horses feed and Mrs. Copley take a rest."
This proposition was received with such joy by Dolly that it was at once acted upon. The party sought out an inn, bespoke some luncheon, and arranged for Mrs. Copley's repose. But chancing to hear from Lawrence that the treasures of art and value in the church repositories were both rich and rare, she gave up the promised nap and joined the party who went to the dome. After the Dresden Green vaults, she said, she supposed nothing new could be found; but she would go and see. So they went all together. If Lawrence had guessed to what this chance visit would lead! But that is precisely what people can never know.
Dolly was in a condition of growing delight, which every step increased. Before the great front of the cathedral she stood still and looked up, while Rupert and Mrs. Copley turned their backs and gazed out upon the wide country view. Lawrence, as usual when he could, attended upon Dolly.
"I did not know you were so fond ofthiskind of thing," he remarked, seeing a little enviously her bright, interested eyes.
"It lifts me almost off my feet!" said Dolly. "My soul don't seem big enough to take it all in. How grand, how grand!—Whose statues are those?"
"On each side?" said Lawrence, who had been collecting information. "That on the one hand is Heinrich von Isenburg, the founder; and the other is the architect, but nobody knows his name. It is lost. St. George is on the top there."
"Well," said Dolly, "he is just as well off as if it hadn't been lost!"
"Who? the architect? How do you make that out? He loses all the glory."
"How does he lose it? Do you think," said Dolly, smiling, "he would care, in the other world, to know that you and I liked his work?"
"The other world!" said St. Leger.
"You believe in it, don't you?"
"Yes, certainly; but you speak as if"——
"As if I believed in it!" said Dolly merrily. "You speak as if you didn't."
"I do, I assure you; but what is fame then?"
"Nothing at all," said Dolly.—"Just nothing at all; if you mean people's admiration or applause given when we have gone beyond reach of it."
"Beyond reach of it!" said Lawrence, echoing her words again. "Miss Dolly, do you think it is no use to have one's name honoured by all the world for ages after we have lived?"
"Very good for the world," said Dolly, with a spice of amusement visible again.
"And nothing to the man?"
"What should it be to the man?" said Dolly, seriously enough now. "Mr. St. Leger, when a man has got beyond this world with its little cares and interests, there will be just one question for him,—whether he has done what God put him here to do; and there will be just one word of praise that he will care about,—the 'Well done!'—if he may have it,—from those lips."
Dolly began quietly, but her colour flushed and her lip trembled as she went on, and her eye sparkled through a sudden veil of tears. Lawrence was silenced by admiration, and almost forgot what they were talking about.
"But don't you think," he began again, as Dolly moved towards the church door, "that the one thing—I mean, the praise here,—will be a sort of guaranty for the praise there?"
"No," said Dolly. "That which is highly esteemed among men is abomination in the sight of God—often, often." She pushed open the door and went in. Only a little way in; there she stood still, arrested by all the glory and the beauty that met her eye. The nobleness of form, the wealth of colour, the multiplied richness of both, almost bewildered her at first entering. Pillars, arches, vaultings, niches, galleries, arcades—a wilderness of harmonised form; and every panel and fair space filled with painting. She could not see details yet; she was lost in the greatness of the whole.
"Whom has Mrs. Copley picked up?" asked Lawrence in an undertone. After all, if the architect's posthumous fame had depended on him, it would not have been worth much effort. Mrs. Copley, it may be mentioned, had passed on while Dolly and St. Leger had stood talking outside; and now she was seen in the distance the centre of a group of lively talkers; at least there was one lady who was free to exercise her gifts in that way. Lawrence and Dolly slowly advanced, even Dolly's attention taken for a moment from the church by this extraordinary combination. Yes, Mrs. Copley had found acquaintances. The talker was a lady of about her own age; a gentleman stood near, a little behind was a younger lady, while Rupert balanced the group on the other side.
"There's something uncommon over yonder," whispered Lawrence. "Do you see that blond girl? not blond neither, for her hair isn't; but what an exquisite colour!—and magnificent figure. Do you know her?"
"No," said Dolly,—"I think not. Yet I do. Who can it be? I do not know the one talking to mother."
"And this is she?" the elder lady was saying as Dolly now came up, looking at her with a smiling face. "It's quite delightful to meet friends in the midst of a wilderness so; like the print of a man's foot on the sands in a desert; for really, in the midst of strange people one feels cast away. She's handsomer than you were, Mrs. Copley. My dear, do you know your old schoolfellow?"
"Christina Thayer!" exclaimed Dolly, as the other young lady came forward; and there was a joyful recognition on both sides.
"Who is your friend?" Mrs. Thayer next went on. "Won't you introduce him?—St. Leger? Don't I know your father? Ernest Singleton St. Leger?—Yes! Why, he was a great beau of mine once, a good while ago, you know," she added, nodding. "You might not think it, but he was. Oh, I know him very well; I know him like a book. You must be my friend. Christina, this is Mr. St. Leger; my old friend's son.—Mr. Thayer."
Mr. Thayer was nothing remarkable. But Christina had fulfilled the promise of her girlhood, and developed into a magnificent beauty. Her skin showed the richest, clear, creamy white tints, upon which in her cheeks and lips the carmine lay like rose leaves. Her hair was light brown and abundant, features regular, eyes sweet; she was one of those fair, full, stately, placid Saxon types of beauty, which are not very common in America and remarkable anywhere. Her figure was roundly and finely developed, rather stately and slow moving; which characteristic harmonised with all the rest of her. The two girls were as unlike each other as possible. It amused and half fascinated Lawrence to watch the contrast. It seemed to be noon of a summer day in the soul of Christina, a still breadth of light without shadow; there was a murmur of content in her voice when she spoke, and a ripple of content in her laugh when she laughed. But the light quivered on Dolly's lip, and gleamed and sparkled in her brown eyes, and light and shadow could flit over her face with quick change; they did so now.
Meanwhile people had forgotten the old cathedral. Christina seemed unaffectedly glad at the meeting with her friend of the school days.
"I'm so delighted," she said, drawing Dolly a little apart. "Where are you? where do you come from, I mean? How come you to be here?"
"We come from Dresden; we are on our way"——
"You are living in London, aren't you? I heard that. It's too good to meet you so! for Europe is full of people, no doubt, but there are very few that I care for. Oh, tell me where you are going?"
"Venice first."
"And further south? you are going on into Italy?"
"Yes, I think so."
"That's delightful. Oh, there's nothing like Italy! It is not your wedding journey, Dolly?"—with a glance at the very handsome young man who was standing in waiting a few paces off.
"What are you thinking of!" cried Dolly. "Christina, we are travelling for mother's health."
"Oh, well, I didn't suppose it; but it might be, you know; it will be, before you know it. It isn'tmine, either; though it only wants two things of it. Oh, I want to tell you all about myself, Dolly, and I want to show you somebody; I have got somebody to show, you see. You will come and make us a visit, will you not? Oh, you must! I must have you."
"You said it wanted onlytwo thingsof being your wedding journey? What things?"
"The presence of the gentleman, and the performance of the ceremony." And as Christina said it, a delicate peach-blossom bloom ripened in her cheeks; you could hardly say that she blushed. "Oh, the gentleman is somewhere, though he is not here," she went on, with that ripple of laughter; "and the ceremony is somewhere in the distance, too. I want you to see him, Dolly. I am proud of him. I think everything in the world of him."
"I suppose I may know his name?"
"Christina," cried Mrs. Thayer, "where are you? My dear, we cannot stand here and talk all the afternoon; our friends have got to see the church. Isn't it a delicious old place? Just go round and examine things; I could stay here for ever. Every little place where there is room for it is filled with the quaintest, queerest, charmingest paintings. Where there is room for it, there is a group; and where there is not a group, there is an apostle or a saint; and where there is not room for that, there is something else, which this unintelligible old guide will explain to you. And think—for years and years it has held the richest collection—oh, just wait and see! it is better than the church itself. My dear, the riches of its treasures are incalculable. Fancy, a mitre, a bishop's mitre, you know, so heavy with precious stones that the good man cannot bear it on his head but a few minutes; over three thousand pearls and precious stones in it; and the work, oh, the work of it is wonderful! just in the finest Renaissance"——
"We have just come from the Green vaults at Dresden," put in Mrs. Copley. "I suppose that goes ahead of everything else."
"Oh, my dear, I don't know; I don't see how anything can be superior to the show here. Is Mr. St. Leger fond of art?"
"Fonder of nature," Mr. St. Leger confesses with a bow.
"Nature,—well, come to see us at Naples. We have got a villa not far from there—you'llallcome and stay with us. Oh, we cannot let you off; it is such a thing to meet with one's own people from home. You will certainly want to see us, and we shall want to see you. Venice, oh yes, after you have seen Venice, and then we shall be at home again; we just set off on this journey to use up the time until the 'Red Chief' could come to Naples. We are going back soon, and we'll be all ready to welcome you. And Mr. St. Leger, of course. Mr. St. Leger, I could tell you a great deal about your father. He and I flirted dreadfully once; and, you know, if flirting isproperlycarried on, one always has a little sneaking kindness for the people one has flirted with."
"No more than that?" said St. Leger with a polite smile.
"Why, what would you have? after one has grown old, you know. You would not have me in love with him! Here is my husband and my daughter. Don't you have a kindness for the people you flirt with?"
"I must not say anything against flirting, in the present company"—— Lawrence began.
"No, of course you mustn't. We all flirt, at a certain age. How are young people to get acquainted with one another and find out what they would like? You never buy cheese without tasting it, you know, not in England. Just as well call things by their right names. I don't think anybody ought to deny flirting; it's nature; we must do it. Christina flirts, I know, in the most innocent way, with everybody; not as I did; she has her own style; and your daughter does it too, Mrs. Copley. I can see it in her eyes. Ah me, I wish I was young again! And what a place to flirt in such an old church is!"
"O mamma!" came from Christina.
"Very queer taste, I should say," remarked Mrs. Copley.
"It isn't taste; it is combination of circumstances," Mrs. Thayer, smiling, went on. "You see if I don't say true. My dear, such a place as this is full of romance, full! Just think of the people that have been married here; why, the first church was built here in 814; imagine that!"
"Enough to keep one from flirting for ever," said Dolly, on whom the lady's eye fell as she ended her sentence.
"Just go in and see those jewels and hear the stories," said Mrs. Thayer, nodding at her. "That old woman will tell you stories enough, if you can understand her; Christina had to translate for me; but, my dear, there's a story there fit to break your heart; about a blood jasper. It is carved; Mr. Thayer says the carving is very fine, and I suppose it is; but all I thought of was the story. My dear, the stone is all spotted with dark stains, and they are said to be the stains of heart's blood. Oh, it is as tragical as can be. You see, the carver, or stone-cutter,—the young man who did the work,—loved his master's daughter—it's a very romantic story—and she"——
"Flirted?" suggested St. Leger.
"Well, I am afraid she did; but it is the old course of things; her father thought she might look higher, you know, and shedid;married the richest nobleman in Verona; and the young man had been promised her if he did his work well, and the work is magnificently done; but he was cheated; and he drove a sharp little knife into his heart. Christina, what was the old master's name?"
"I forget, mamma."
"You ought not to forget; you will want to tell the story. Of courseIhave forgotten; I did not understand it at the time, and I never remember anything besides; but he was very famous, and everybody wanted the things he did, and he could not execute all the commissions he got; and this young man was his best favourite pupil."
"How came the stains upon the stone?" asked Lawrence. "Did it bleed for sympathy?"
"I don't know; I have forgotten. Oh yes! the stone was in his hand, you know."
"And it was sympathy?" said Lawrence quite gravely, though Dolly could not keep her lips in order.
"No, it was the blood. Go in and you'll see it, and all the rest. And there—— Where are you going? to Venice? We are going on to Cologne and then back to Rome. We shall meet in Rome? You will stay in Venice for a few weeks, and then be in Rome about Christmas; and then we will make arrangements for a visit from you all. Oh yes, we must have you all."
Lawrence accompanied the lady to the door, and Christina following with Dolly earnestly begged for the meeting in Rome, and that Dolly would spend Christmas with her. "I have so much to tell you," she said; "and my—the gentleman I spoke of—will meet us in Rome; and he will spend Christmas with us; and I want you to see him. I admire Mr. St. Leger, very much!" she added in a confidential whisper.
"Mr. St. Leger is nothing to me," said Dolly steadily, looking in her friend's face. "He is father's secretary, and is taking care of us till my father can come."
"Oh, well, if he is not anything to younow, perhaps—you never know what will be," said Christina. "He is very handsome! Don't you like him? I long to know how you will like—Mr. Rayner."
"Who is he?" said Dolly, by way of saying something.
"Didn't I tell yon? He is first officer on board the 'Red Chief,' one of our finest vessels of war; it is in the Mediterranean now; and we expect him to come to us at Christmas. Manage to be at Rome then, do, dear; and afterwards you must all come and make us a visit at our villa, near Naples, and we'll show you everything."
"Christina," said Mrs. Thayer, when she and her daughter and her husband were safe in the privacy of their carriage, "that is a son of the rich English banker, St. Leger; they areveryrich. We must be polite to him."
"You are polite to everybody, mamma."
"Butyoumust be polite to him."
"I'll try, mamma—if you wish it."
"I wish it, of course. You never know how useful such an acquaintance may be to you. Is he engaged to that girl?"
"I think not, mamma. She says not."
"That don't prove anything, though."
"Yes, it does, with her. Dolly Copley was always downright—not like the rest."
"Every girl thinks it is fair to fib about her lovers. However, I thoughthelooked at you, Christina, not exactly as if he were a bound man."
"He is too late," said the girl carelessly. "I am a bound woman."
"Well, be civil to him," said her mother. "You never know what people may do."
"I don't care, mamma. Mr. St. Leger's doings are of no importance to me."
Mrs. Thayer was silent now; and her husband remarked that Mr. St. Leger could not do better than pick up that pretty, wise-eyed little girl.
"Wise-eyed! she is that, isn't she?" cried Christina. "She always was. She is grown up wonderfully pretty."
"She is no more to be compared to you, than—well, never mind," said Mrs. Thayer. "I hope we shall see more of them at Christmas. Talk of eyes,—Mr. St. Leger's eyes are beautiful. Did you notice them?"
Dolly on her side had seen the party descend the rocks, looking after them with an odd feeling or mixture of feelings. The meeting with her school friend had brought up sudden contrasts never so sharply presented to her before. The gay carelessness of those old times, the warm shelter of her Aunt Hal's home, the absolute trust in her father and mother,—where was all that now? Dolly saw Christina's placid features and secure gaiety, saw her surrounded and sheltered by her parents' arms, strong to guard and defend her; and she seemed to herself lonely. It fell to her to guard and defend her mother; and her father? what was he about?—There swept over her an exceeding bitter cry of desolateness, unuttered, but as it were the cry of her whole soul; with again that sting of pain which seemed unendurable, how can a father let his child be ashamed of him! She turned away that St. Leger might not see her face; she felt it was terribly grave; and betook herself now to the examination of the church.
And the still beauty and loftiness of the place wrought upon her by and by with a strange effect. Wandering along among pillars and galleries and arcades, where saints and apostles and martyrs looked down upon her as out of past ages, she seemed to be surrounded by a "great cloud of witnesses." They looked down upon her with grave, high sympathy, or they looked up with grave, high love and trust; they testified to work done and dangers met, and suffering borne, for Christ,—and to the glory awaiting them, and to which they then looked forward, and which now they had been enjoying—how long? What mattered the little troubled human day, so that heaven's long sunshine set in at the end of it? And that sun "shall no more go down." Dolly roved on and on, going from one to another sometimes lovely sometimes stern old image; and gradually she forgot the nineteenth century, and dropped back into the past, and so came to take a distant and impartial view of herself and her own life; getting a better standard by which to measure the one and regulate the other. She too could live and work for Christ. What though the work were different and less noteworthy; what matter, so that she were doing what He gave her to do? Not to make a noise in the world, either by preaching or dying; not to bear persecution; just to live true and shine, to comfort and cheer her mother, to reclaim and save her father, to trust and be glad! Yes, less than that latter would not do full honour to her Master or His truth; and so much as that He would surely help her to attain. Dolly wandered about the cathedral, and mused, and prayed, and grew quiet and strong, she thought; while her mother was viewing the church treasures with Mr. St. Leger, Dolly excused herself, preferring the church.
"Dolly, Dolly," said Mrs. Copley when at last she came away, "you don't know what you have lost."
"It is not so much as I have gained, mother."
"I'm glad we have seen it, Mr. St. Leger; and I'm glad we have done with it! I don't want to see any more sights till we get to Venice. Where are the Thayers going, Dolly?"
"To Cologne, mother, and to Nice and Mentone, they said."
"I wish they were coming to Venice. How fat Christina has grown!"
"O mother! She is a regular beauty—she could not do with less flesh; she ought not to lose an ounce of it. She is not fat. She is perfect. Is she not, Mr. St. Leger?"
Lawrence assented that Miss Thayer had the symmetry of a beautiful statue.
"Too fat," said Mrs. Copley. "If she is a statue now, what will she be by and by? I don't like that sort of beauties. Her face wants life."
"It does not want sweetness," said Lawrence. "It is a very attractive face."
"I am glad we stopped here, if it was only for the meeting them," said Mrs. Copley. "But I can't see how you could miss all those diamonds and gold and silver things, Dolly. They were just wonderful."
"All the Green vaults did not give me the pleasure this old church did, mother."