"You and your friend are the most perfect contrast," remarked Lawrence as they were driving away. "She is repose in action—and you are activity in repose."
"That sounds well," Dolly answered after a pause. "I am trying to think whether there is any meaning in it."
"Certainly; or I hope so. She is placidity itself; one wonders if she could be anything but placid; while you"——
"Never mind about me," said Dolly hastily. "I am longing to know whether mother will like Venice."
"Shall you?"
"Oh, I like everything."
Which was the blissful truth. Even anxiety did not prevent its being the truth; perhaps anxiety even at times put a keener edge upon enjoyment; Dolly fled from troublesome thoughts to the beauties of a landscape, the marvels of a piece of mediaeval architecture, the bewitchment of a bit of painting from an old master's hand; and tasted, and lingered, and tasted over again in memory, all the beauty and the marvel and the bewitchment. Lawrence smiled to himself at the thought of what she would find in Venice.
"There's one thing I don't make out," Rupert broke in.
"Only one?" said Lawrence. But the other was too intent to heed him.
"It bothers me, why the people that could build such a grand church, couldn't make better houses for themselves."
"Ah!" said Lawrence. "You manage that better in America?"
"If we didn't—I'd emigrate! We don't have such splendid things as that old pile of stones,"—looking back at the dome,—"but our farmhouses are a long sight ahead of this country."
"I guess, Rupert," Dolly remarked now, "the men that built the dome did not build the farmhouses."
"Who built the dome, as you call it, then? But I don't see any dome; there's only a nest of towers."
"The nobles built the great cathedrals."
"And if you went through one oftheirhouses," said Lawrence, "you would not think they neglected number one. You never saw anything like an old Germanschlossin America."
"Then the nobles had all the money?"
"Pretty much so. Except the rich merchants in some of the cities; andtheybuilt grand churches and halls and the like, and made themselves happy with magnificence at home in other ways; not architecture."
"I am glad I don't belong here," said Rupert. "But don't the people know any better?"
"Than what?"
"Than to let the grand folks have it all their own way?"
"They were brought up to it," said Lawrence. "That's just what they like."
"I expect they'll wake up some day," said Rupert. Which observation Lawrence did not think worthy of answer; as it was ahead of the time and of him equally.
They made no unnecessary delay now in going on to Venice. I think Lawrence had had a secret design to see some one of the great gaming watering-places; and they had come back to the banks of the Rhine on purpose. But, however, both Dolly and her mother were in such haste that he could not induce them by any motive of curiosity or interest to stop. Dolly indeed had a great horror of those places, and did not want, she said, to see how beautiful they were. She hoped for her father's coming to them in Venice; and Mrs. Copley with the nervous restlessness of an invalid had set her mind on that goal, and would not look at anything short of it. So they only passed through Wiesbaden and went on.
But Dolly did want to see Switzerland. When the party came to the lake of Constance, however, Mrs. Copley declined that proposal. Everybody went to Switzerland, she said; and she did not care about it. The hope would have fallen through, only that Lawrence, seeing Dolly's disappointment, proposed taking a route through the Tyrol. Comparatively few people went there, he assured Mrs. Copley; and furthermore, that it was as good a way to Venice as any other. Mrs. Copley gave consent; and to Dolly's immeasurable and inexpressible satisfaction through the Tyrol they went. Nothing could spoil it, even although Mrs. Copley every day openly regretted her concession and would have taken it back if she could. The one of them was heartily sorry, the other as deeply contented, when finally the plains of Lombardy were reached.
It was evening and rainy weather when they came to the last stage of their journey, and left the carriage of which Mrs. Copley had grown so weary.
"What sort of a place is this?" she asked presently.
"Not much of a place," said Lawrence. "We will leave it as fast as possible."
"Well, I should hope so. What are these things? and is that a canal?"
"We should call it a canal in our country," said Rupert; "buttherethere'd be something at the end of it."
"But what are those black things?" Mrs. Copley repeated. "Do you want me to get into one of them? I don't like it."
"They are gondolas, mother; Venetian gondolas. We must get into one, if we want to go to Venice."
"Where is Venice?" said Mrs. Copley, looking over the unpromising landscape.
"I don't know," said Dolly, laughing, "but Mr. St. Leger knows. We shall be there in a little while mother, if you'll only get in."
"I don't like boats. And I never saw such boats as those in my life," said Mrs. Copley, holding back. "I would rather keep the carriage and go on as we came; though all my bones are aching. I would rather go in the carriage."
"But you cannot, mother; there are no carriages here. The way is by water; and boats are the only vehicles used in Venice. We may as well get accustomed to them."
"No carriages!"
"Why, surely you knew that before."
"I didn't. I knew there were things to go on the canals; I never knew they were such forlorn-looking things; but I supposed there were carriages to go in the streets. Are there no carts either? How is the baggage going?"
"There are no streets, mother. The ways are all water ways, and the carriages are gondolas; and it is just as lovely as it can be. Come, let us try it."
"What are the houses built on?"
"Mother, suppose you get in, and we'll talk as we go along. We had better get out of the rain; don't you think so? It is falling quite fast."
"I had rather be in the rain than in the sea. Dolly, if it isn't too far, I'll walk."
"It is too far, dear mother. You could not do that. It is a long way yet."
Lawrence stood by, biting his lips between impatience and a sense of the ridiculous; and withal admiring the tender, delicate patience of the girl who gently coaxed and reasoned and persuaded, and finally moved Mrs. Copley to suffer herself to be put in the gondola, on the forward deck of which Rupert had been helping the gondoliers to stow some of the baggage. Dolly immediately took her place beside her mother; the two young men followed, and the gondola pushed off. Mrs. Copley found herself comfortable among the cushions, felt that the motion of the gondola was smooth, assured herself that it would not turn over; finally felt at leisure to make observations again.
"We can't see anything here," she remarked, peering out first on one side, then on the other.
"There is nothing to see," said Lawrence, "but the banks of the canal."
"Very ugly banks, too. Are we going all the way by water now?"
"All the way, to our hotel door."
"Do the boatmen know where to go?"
"Yes. Have no fear."
"Why don't they have streets in Venice?"
"Mother, don't you remember, the city is built on sand banks, and the sea flows between? The only streets possible are like this. Could anything be better? This motion will not fatigue you; and are not your cushions comfortable?"
"Thesea, Dolly?" cried Mrs. Copley, catching the word. "You never told me that. If the sea comes in, it must be rough sometimes."
"No, mother; it is a shallow level for miles and miles, covered at high tide by a few feet of water, and at low tide bare. Venice is built on the sand banks of islands which rise above this level."
"What ever made people choose such a ridiculous place to build a city, when there was good ground enough?"
"The good ground was not safe from enemies, mother, dear. The people fled to these sand islands for safety."
"Enemies! What enemies?"
So the history had to be further gone into; in the midst of which Mrs. Copley burst out again.
"I'm so tired of this canal!—just mud banks and nothing else. How much longer is it to last?"
"We shall come to something else by and by. Have patience," said Lawrence.
But the patience of three of them was tried, before they fairly emerged from the canal, and across a broader water saw the lines of building and the domes of Venice before them.
"You'll soon be out of the gondola now, mother, dear," said Dolly delightedly. For the rain clouds had lifted a little, and the wide spread of the lagoon became visible, as well as the dim line of the city; and Dolly's heart grew big. Mrs. Copley's was otherwise.
"I'll never get into one again," she said, referring to the gondolas. "I don't like it. I don't feel as if I was anywhere. There's another,—there's two more. Are they all painted black?"
"It is the fashion of Venetian gondolas."
"Well! there is nothing like seeing for yourself. I always had an idea gondolas were something romantic and pretty. Is the water deep here?"
"No, very shallow," Lawrence assured her.
"It looks just as if it was deep. I wouldn't have come to Venice if I had known what a forlorn place it is."
But who shall tell the different impression on Dolly's mind, when the city was really reached and the gondola entered one of those narrow water-ways between rows of palaces. The rain had begun to come down again, it is true; a watery veil hung over the buildings, drops plashed busily into the canal; there were no beautiful effects of sunlight and shadow; and Lawrence himself declared it was a miserable coming to Venice. But Dolly was in a charmed state. She noted eagerly every strange detail; bridges, boats, people; was hardly sorry for the rain, she found so much to delight her in spite of it.
"What's our man making such noises for?" cried Mrs. Copley.
"Just to give warning before he turns a corner," Lawrence explained, "lest he should run against another gondola."
"What would happen then? Is the water deep enough to drown? It would be horrid water to be drowned in!" said Mrs. Copley shuddering.
"No danger, mother; we are not going to try it," Dolly said soothingly.
"Nobody is ever drowned in Venetian canals," said Lawrence. "They will carry us safe to our hotel, Mrs. Copley; never fear."
"But hasn't the water risen?" she exclaimed presently.
"It is up to the steps of that house there."
"It is up to all the steps, mother, so that people can get into their gondolas at their very door; don't you see?"
"It goes ahead of everything!" exclaimed Rupert, who had scarce spoken. "It's like being in a fairy story."
"I can't see much beside water," said Mrs. Copley. "Water above and water below. It must be unhealthy. And I thought Venice had such beautiful old palaces. I don't see any of 'em."
"We have passed several of them," said Lawrence.
"I can see nothing but black walls—except those queer painted sticks; what aretheyfor?"
"To the gondolas in waiting."
"What are they painted so for?"
"The colours belonging to the family arms."
"Whose family?"
"The family to whom the house belongs."
"Dolly," said Mrs. Copley, "we shall not want to stay here long. We might go on and try Rome. Mrs. Thayer says spring-time is the best at Naples."
"It will all look very different, Mrs. Copley, when you see it by sunlight," said Lawrence. "Wait a little."
Dolly would have enjoyed every inch of the way, if her mother would have let her. To her eyes the novel strangeness of the scene was entrancing. Not beautiful, certainly; not beautiful yet; by mist and rain and darkness how should it be? but she relished the novelty. The charmed stillness pleased her; the gliding gondolas; the but half revealed houses and palaces; the odd conveyance in which she herself was seated; the wonderful water-ways, the strange cries of the gondoliers. It was not half spoiled for her, as it was; and she trusted the morning would bring for her mother a better mood.
Something of a better mood was produced that evening when Mrs. Copley found herself in a warm room, before a good supper. But the next morning it still rained. Dark skies, thick atmosphere, a gloomy outlook upon ways where no traveller for mere pleasure was to be seen; none but people bent on business of one sort or another. Yet everything was delightful to Dolly's eyes; the novelty was perfect, the picturesqueness undeniable. What she could see of the lagoon, of the vessels at anchor, the flying gondolas, the canals and the bridges over them, and the beautiful Riva, put Dolly in a rapture. Her eye roved, her heart swelled. "O mother!" she exclaimed, "if father would only come!"
"What then?" said Mrs Copley dismally. "He would take us away, I hope."
"Oh, but not until we have seen Venice."
"Ihave seen Venice enough to content me. It is the wettest place I was ever in my life."
"Why, it rains, mother. Any place is wet when it rains."
"This would be wet at all times. I think the ground must have sunk, Dolly; people would never have built in the water so. The ground must have sunk."
"No, mother; I guess not. It has been always just so."
"What made them build here then, when there is all the earth beside? What did they take to the water for? And what are the houses standing on, any way?"
"Islands, mother, between which these canals run. I told you before."
"I should think the people hadn't any sense."
And nothing would tempt Mrs. Copley out that day. Of course Dolly must stay at home too, though she would most gladly have gone about through the rainy, silent city, in one of those silent gondolas, and feed her eyes at every step. However, she made herself and made her mother as comfortable as she could; got out her painting and worked at Rupert's portrait, which was so successful that Lawrence begged she would begin upon him at once.
"You know the conditions," she said.
"I accept them. Finish one of me so good as that, and I will send it to my mother and ask her what she will give for it."
"But not tell her?"——
"Certainly not."
"I find," said Dolly slowly, "that it is a very great compliment for a lady to paint a gentleman's likeness."
"Why?"
"She has to give so much attention to the lines of his face. I shouldn't like to paint some people. But I'll do anybody, for a consideration."
"Your words are not flattering," said Lawrence, "even if your actions are."
"No," said Dolly. "Compliments are not in my way."
And though she made a beginning upon St. Leger's picture, and studied the lines of his face accordingly, he did not feel flattered. Dolly's clear, intelligent eyes looked at him as steadily and as unmovedly as if he had been a Titian.
The next day brought a change. If Dolly had watched from her balcony with interest the day before, now she was breathless with what she found. The sun was shining bright, a breeze was rippling the waters of the lagoon, and gently fluttering a sail and a streamer here and there; the beautiful water was enlivened with vessels of all kinds and of many lands, black gondolas darted about; and the buildings lining the shores of the lagoon stood to view in their beauty and magnificence and variety before Dolly's eye; the Doge's palace, here and there a clock tower, here and there the bridge over a side canal. "O mother!" she cried, "we have seen nothing like this! nothing like this!"
"I am glad it don't rain at least," said Mrs. Copley. "But it can't be healthy here, Dolly; it must be damp."
And when they all met at breakfast, and plans for the day began to be discussed, she declared that she did not want to see anything.
"Not St. Mark's?" said Lawrence.
"What is St. Mark's? It is just a church. I am sure we have seen churches enough."
"There is only one St. Mark's in the world."
"I don't care if there were a dozen. Is it better than the church we went to see—at that village near Wiesbaden?"
"Limburg? Much better."
"Well—that will do for me."
"There is the famous old palace of the Doges; and the Bridge of Sighs, Mrs. Copley, and the prisons."
"Prisons? You don't think I want to go looking at prisons, do you? Why should I? what's in the prisons?"
"Not much. There has been, first and last, a good deal of misery in them."
"And you think that is pleasant to look at?"
Dolly could not help laughing, and confessed she would like to see the prisons.
"Well, you may go," said her mother. "Idon't want to."
Lawrence saw that Dolly's disappointment was like to be bitter.
"I'll tell you what I'll show you, Mrs. Copley, if you'll trust yourself to go out," he said. "I have got a commission from my mother which must take me into one of the wonderful shops of curiosities here. You never saw such a shop. Old china, of the rarest, and old furniture of the most delightful description, and old curiosities of art out of decayed old palaces, caskets, vases, trinkets, mirrors, and paintings."
Mrs. Copley demurred. "Can we go there in a carriage?"
"No such thing to be had, except a gondola carriage. Come! you will like it. Why, Mrs. Copley, the streets are no broader than very narrow alleys. Carriages would be of no use."
Mrs. Copley demurred, but was tempted. The gondola went better by day than in the night. Once out, Lawrence used his advantage and took the party first to the Place of St. Mark, where he delighted Dolly with a sight of the church. Mrs. Copley was too full of something else to admire churches. She waited and endured, while Dolly's eyes and mind devoured the new feast given to them. They went into the church, up to the roof, and came out to the Piazza again.
"It is odd," said Dolly—"I see it is beautiful; I see it is magnificent; more of both than I can say; and yet, it does not give me the feeling of respect I felt for that old dome at Limburg."
"But," said Lawrence; "that won't do, you know. St. Mark's and Limburg! that opinion cannot stand. What makes you say so?"
"I don't know," said Dolly. "I have a feeling that the people who built that were more in earnest than the people who built this."
"More in earnest? I beg your pardon!" said Lawrence. "What can you mean? I should say people were in earnest enough here, to judge by the riches of the place. Just see the adornment everywhere, and the splendour."
"Yes," said Dolly, "I see. It is partly that. Though there was adornment, and riches too, at the other place. But the style of it is different. Those grave old towers at Limburg seemed striving up into the sky. I don't see any striving here; in the building, I mean."
"Why, there are pinnacles enough," said Lawrence, in comical inability to fathom her meaning, or answer her.
"Yes," said Dolly; "and domes; but the pinnacles do not strive after anything, and the cupolas seem to settle down like great extinguishers upon everything like striving."
Lawrence laughed, and thought in his own mind that Dolly was a little American, wanting culture, and knowing nothing about architecture.
"What is that great long building?" Mrs. Copley now inquired.
"That, mother?—that is the palace of the Doges. Where is the Bridge of Sighs?"
They went round to look at it from the Ponte della Paglia. Nearer investigation had to be deferred, or, Dolly saw, it would be too literally a bridge of sighs to them that morning. They turned their backs on the splendours, ecclesiastical and secular, of the Place of St. Mark, and proceeded to the store of second-hand curiosities St. Leger had promised Mrs. Copley, the visit to which could no longer be deferred. Dolly was in a dream of delight all the way. Sunlight on the old palaces, on the bridges over the canals, on the wonderful carvings of marbles, on the strange water-ways; sunlight and colour; ay, and shadow and colour too, for the sun could not get in everywhere. Between the beauty and picturesqueness, and the wealth of old historic legend and story clustering about it everywhere, Dolly's dream was entrancing.
"I do not know half enough about Venice," she remarked by the way. "Rupert, we must read up. As soon as I can get the books," she added with a laugh.
However, Dolly was susceptible to more than one sort of pleasure; and when the party had reached the Jew's shop, she was perhaps as much pleased though not so much engrossed as her mother. For Mrs. Copley, figuratively speaking, was taken off her feet. This was another thing from the Green vaults and the treasure chamber of Limburg; here the wonders and glories were not unattainable, if one had the means to reach them, that is; and not admiration only, but longing, filled Mrs. Copley's mind.
"I must have that cabinet," she said. "I suppose we can do nothing till your father comes, Dolly. Do write and tell him to bring plenty of money along, for I shall want some. Such a chance one does not have often in one's life. And that cup! Dolly, Imusthave that cup; it's beyond everything I ever did see!"
"Mother, look at this ivory carving."
"That's out of my line," said Mrs. Copley with a slight glance. "I should call that good for nothing, now. What's the use of it? But, O Dolly, see this sideboard!"
"You don't wantthat, mother."
"Why don't I? The price is not so very much."
"Think of the expense of getting it home."
"There is no such great difficulty in that. You must write your father, Dolly, to send if he does not come, at once. I should not like to leave these things long. Somebody else might see them."
"Hundreds have seen them already, Mrs. Copley," said Lawrence. "There's time enough."
"I'd rather not trust to that."
"What things do you want, dear mother, seriously? Anything?"
Dolly's voice carried a soft insinuation that her mother's wanting anything there was a delusion; Mrs. Copley flamed out.
"Do you think I am coming into such a place as this, Dolly, and going to let the chance slip? Imusthave several of these things. I'll tell you. This cup—that isn't much. Now that delicious old china vase—I do not know what china it is, but I'll find out; there is nothing like it, I don't believe, in all Boston. I have chosen that sideboard;thatis quite reasonable. You would pay quite as much in Boston, or in London, for a common handsome bit of cabinet-maker's work; while this is—just look at it, Dolly; see these drawers, see these compartments—that's for wine and cordials, you know"——
"We don't want wine and cordials," said Dolly.
"See the convenience and the curiousness of these arrangements; and look at the inlaying, child! It's the loveliest thing I ever saw in my life. Oh, I must have that! And it would be a sin to leave this screen, Dolly. Where ever do you suppose that came from?"
"Eastern work," said Lawrence.
"What eastern work?"
"Impossible for me to say. Might have belonged to the Great Mogul, by the looks of it. Do you admirethat, Mrs. Copley?"
"How should it come here?"
"Here? the very place!" said Lawrence. "What was there rare or costly in the world, that did not find its way to Venice and into the palaces of the old nobles?"
"But how came ithere?"
"Into this curiosity shop? The old nobles went to pieces, and their precious things went to auction; and good Master Judas or Master Levi bought them."
"And these things were in the palaces of the old nobles?"
"Many of them. Perhaps all of them. I should say, a large proportion."
"That makes them worth just so much the more."
"You need not tell Master Levi that. And you have admired so much this morning, Mrs. Copley, if you will take my advice, it will be most discreet to come away without making any offer. Do not let him think you have any purpose of buying. I am afraid he will put on a fearful price, if you do."
Whether Lawrence meant this counsel seriously, or whether it was a feint to get Mrs. Copley safely out of the shop, Dolly was uncertain; she was grateful to Lawrence all the same. No doubt he had seen that she was anxious. He had been in fact amused at the elder lady not more than interested for the younger one; Dolly's delicate attempts to draw off her mother from thoughts of buying had been so pretty, affectionate, and respectful in manner, sympathising, and yet steady in self-denial. Mrs. Copley was hard to bring off. She looked at Lawrence, doubtful and antagonistic, but his suggestion had been too entirely in her own line not to be appreciated. Mrs. Copley looked and longed, and held her tongue; except from exclamations. They got out of the shop at last, and Dolly made a private resolve not to be caught there again if she could help it.
In the afternoon she devoted herself to painting Lawrence's picture. Her first purpose had been to take a profile or side view of him; but St. Leger declared, if the likeness was for his mother she would never be satisfied if the eyes did not look straight into her eyes; so Dolly had to give that point up; and accordingly, while she studied him, he had full and equal opportunity to study her. It was a doubtful satisfaction. He could rarely meet Dolly's eyes, while yet he saw how coolly they perused him, how calmly they studied him as an abstract thing. He wanted to see a little shyness, a little consciousness, a little wavering, in those clear, wise orbs; but no! Dolly sat at her work and did it as unconcernedly as if she were five years old, to all appearance; with as quiet, calm poise of manner and simplicity of dignity as if she had been fifty. But how pretty she was! Those eyes of hers were such an uncommon mingling of childhood and womanhood, and so lovely in cut and colour and light; and the mouth was the most mobile thing ever known under that name, and charming in every mood of rest or movement. The whole delicate face, the luxuriant brown hair, the little hands, the supple, graceful figure, Lawrence studied over and over again; till he felt it was not good for him.
"Painting a person must make you well acquainted with him," he began after a long silence, during which Dolly had been very busy.
"Outside knowledge," said Dolly.
"Does not the outside always tell something of what is within?"
"Something," Dolly allowed in the same tone.
"What do you see in me?"
"Mrs. St. Leger will know, when she gets this."
"What you seeinme?"
"Well, no—perhaps not."
"Couldn't you indulge me and tell me?"
"Why should I?"
"Out of kindness."
"I do not know whether it would be a kindness," said Dolly slowly.
"You see, Dolly, a fellow can't stand everything for ever! I want to know what you think of me, and what my chances are. Come! I've been pretty patient, it strikes me. Speak out a bit."
Mrs. Copley was lying down to rest, and Rupert had left the room. The pair were alone.
"What do you want me to say, Mr. St. Leger?"
"Tell me what you see in me."
"What would be the good of that? I see an Englishman, to begin with."
"Youseethat in me?"
"Certainly."
"I am glad, but I didn't know it. Is that an advantage in your eyes?"
"Am I an Englishwoman?"
"Not a bit of it," said Lawrence, "nor like it. I never saw an English girl the least like you. But you might grow into it, Dolly, don't you think?"
She lifted her face for an instant and gave him a flashing glance of fun.
"Won't you try, Dolly?"
"I think I would just as lieve be an American."
"Why? America is too far off."
"Very good when you get there," said Dolly contentedly.
"But not better than we have on our side?"
"Well, you have not all the advantages on your side," said Dolly, much occupied with her drawing.
"Go on, and tell mewhatwe have not."
"I doubt the wisdom."
"I beg the favour."
"It would not please you. In the first place, you would not believe me. In the second place, you would reckon an advantage what I reckon a disadvantage."
"Whatdoyou mean?" said Lawrence, very curious and at the same time uneasy. Dolly tried to get off, but he held her to the point. At last Dolly spoke out.
"Mr. St. Leger, women have a better time in my country."
"A better time? Impossible. There are no homes in the world where wives and daughters are better cared for or better loved. None in the world!"
"Ah," said Dolly, "they are too well cared for."
"How do you mean?"
"Too little free."
"Free?" said Lawrence. "Isthatwhat you want?"
"And not quite respected enough."
"Dolly, you bewilder me. What ever did you see or hear to make you think our women are not respected?"
"I dare say it is a woman's view," said Dolly lightly. But Lawrence eagerly begged her to explain or give an instance of what she meant.
"I have not seen much, you know," said Dolly, painting away. "But I heard a gentleman once, at his own dinner-table, and when there was company present—I was not the only visitor—I heard him tell his wife that thesoup was nasty."
And Dolly glanced up to see how Lawrence took it. She judiciously did not tell him that the house was his own father's, and the gentleman in question Mr. St. Leger himself. Lawrence was silent at first. I presume the thing was not so utterly unfamiliar as that he should be much shocked; while he did perceive that here was some difference of the point of view between Dolly's standpoint and his own, and was not ready to answer. Dolly glanced up at him significantly: still Lawrence did not find words.
"That didn't mean anything!" at last he said. Dolly glanced at him again.
"I suppose the soupwasn'tgood. Why not say so?"
"No reason why he should not say so, at a proper time and place."
"It didn't mean any harm, Dolly."
"I suppose not."
"Then what's the matter?"
"It is not the waywedo," said Dolly. "In America, I mean. Not when we are polite."
"Do you think husband and wife ought to be polite to each other—in that way?"
"In what way?"
"That they should not call things by their right names?"
Here Dolly lifted her sweet head and laughed; a merry, ringing, musical, very much amused laugh.
"Ah, you see you are an Englishman," she said. "That is the way you will speak to your wife."
"I will never speak toyou, Dolly, in any way you don't like."
"No" said Dolly gravely, and returning to her work.
"Aren't you ever going to give me a little bit of encouragement?" said he. "I have been waiting as patiently as I could. May I tell my mother who did the picture, when I send it?"
"Say it was done by a deserving young artist, in needy circumstances; but no names."
"But that's not true, Dolly. Your father is as well off as ever he was; his embarrassments are only temporary. He is not in needy circumstances."
"I said nothing about my father. Here, Mr. St. Leger—come and look at it."
The finished likeness was done with great truth and grace. Dolly's talent was an extraordinary one, and had not been uncultivated. She had done her best in the present instance, and the result was a really delicious piece of work. Lawrence saw himself given to great advantage; truly, delicately, characteristically. He was delighted.
"I will send it right off," he said. "Mamma has nothing of me half so good."
"Ask her what she thinks it is worth."
"And I want you to paint a duplicate of this, for me; for myself."
"A duplicate!" cried Dolly. "I couldn't."
"Another likeness of me then, in another view. Set your own price."
"But I shall never make my fortune painting you," said Dolly. "You must get me some other customers; that is the bargain."
"What notion is this, Dolly? It is nonsense between me and you. Why not let things be settled? Let us come to an understanding, and give up this ridiculous idea of painting for money;—if you are in earnest."
"I am always in earnest. And we are upon an excellent understanding, Mr. St. Leger. And I want money. The thing is as harmonious as possible."
Lawrence could get no more satisfaction from Dolly. She left him, and went and stood at the window of her mother's room, looking out. The sunset landscape was glorious. Bay and boats, shipping, palaces, canals and bridges, all coloured in such wonderful colours, brilliant in such marvellous lights and shades, as northern lands do not know, though they have their own. Yet she looked at it sadly. It was Venice; but when would her father come? All her future seemed doubtful and cloudy; and the sunshine which is merely external does not in some moods cast even a reflection of brightness upon one's inner world. If her father would come, and Lawrence would go—if her father would come and be his old self—but what large "ifs" these were. Dolly's eyes grew misty. Then her mother woke up.
"What are you looking at, Dolly?"
"The wonderful sunset, mother. Oh, it is so beautiful! Do come here and see the colours on the sails of the boats."
"When do you think your father will be here?"
"Oh, soon, I hope. He ought to be here soon."
"Did you tell him I would want money to buy things? I must not lose that sideboard."
"There was no need to write about that. He can always get money, if he chooses, as well here as in London. If he has it, that is; but you know, mother"——
"I know," Mrs. Copley interrupted, "that is all nonsense. Hehasit. He always did have it. He has been spending it in other ways lately; that's what it is. Getting his own pleasure. Now it is my turn."
"You shall have it, dear mother, if I can manage it. You are nicely to-day, aren't you? Venice agrees with you. I'm so glad!"
"I think everything would go right, Dolly, if you would just tell Mr. St. Leger that you will have him. I don't like such humming and hawing about anything. He really has waited long enough. If you would tell him that, now, or tellme, then he would lend me the money I want to get those things. I am afraid of losing them. Dolly, when you know you are going to say yes, why not say it? I believe I should get well then, right off.Youwould be safe too, any way."
Dolly sighed imperceptibly, and made no answer.
"You don't half appreciate Mr. St. Leger. He's just a splendid young man. I don't believe there's such another match for you in all England. You should have seen how keen Mrs. Thayer was to know all about him. Wouldn't she like him for her daughter, though! and she is handsome enough, according to some taste. I wish, Dolly, you'd have everything fixed and square before we meet the Thayers again; or you cannot tell what may happen. He may slip through your fingers yet."
Dolly made as little answer as possible. And further, she contrived for a few days to keep her mother from the curiosity shops. It could be done only by staying persistently within doors; and Dolly shut herself up to her painting, and made excuses. But she found this was telling unfavourably on her mother's spirits, and so on her nerves and health; and she began to go out again, though chafing at her dependence on Lawrence, and longing for her father exceedingly.
He came at last; and Dolly to her great relief thought he looked well; though certainly not glad to be in Venice.
"How's your mother?" he asked her when they were alone.
"I think she will be well now, father; now that you have come. And I have so wanted you!"
"I have no doubt she could have got along just as well without me till she went to Sorrento, if she had only thought so."
"I don't think she could. AndIcould not, father. I do not like to be left so much to Mr. St. Leger's care."
"He likes it. How has he behaved?"
"He has behaved very well."
"Then what's the matter?"
"I don't want him to think he has a right to take care of us."
"He has the right, if I give it to him. And you know you mean to give him the right, Dolly, in permanence. What's the use of fighting shy about it? Oh, girls, girls! You must have your way, I suppose. Well, now I'm here to look after you."
And the business of sight-seeing was carried on from that time with unabating activity. They went everywhere, and still Mr. Copley found new things for them to see. Mrs. Copley took him into the curiosity shops, but as surely he took her out of them, with not much done in the way of purchases. Dolly enjoyed everything during the first week or two. She would have enjoyed it hugely, only that the lurking care about her father was always present to her mind. She was not at rest. Mr. Copley seemed well and cheery; active and hearty as usual; yet Dolly detected something hollow in the cheer and something forced in the activity. She thought him restless and uneasy, in spite of all the gaiety.
One day after an excursion of some length the party had turned into a restaurant to refresh themselves. Chocolate and coffee had been brought; and then Mr. Copley exclaimed, "Hang it! this won't do. Have you drunk nothing but slops all this while, Lawrence?" And he ordered the waiter to bring a flask of Greek wine. Dolly's heart leaped to her mouth.
"Oh no, father!" she said pleadingly, laying her hand on his.
"Oh no, what, my child?"
"No wine, please, father!" There was more intensity in Dolly's accents than perhaps anybody knew but Mr. Copley; he had the key; and the low quaver in Dolly's voice did not escape him. He answered without letting himself meet her eyes.
"Why not? Hasn't Lawrence given you anyvino dolcesince you have been in foreign parts? One can get good wine in Venice; and pure."
"If one knows where to go for it," added St. Leger. "So I am told."
"You have not found out by experience yet? We will explore together."
"Not for wine, father?" murmured Dolly.
"Yes, for wine. Wine is one of the good things. What do you think grapes grow for, eh? Certainly, wine is a good thing, if it is properly used. Eh, Lawrence?"
"I have always thought so, sir."
"Cheer your mother up now, Dolly. I believe it would do her lots of good. Here it is. We'll try."
Dolly flushed with pain and anxiety. Yet here, how could she speak plainly? Her father was opening the bottle, and the waiter was setting the glasses.
"We have it on good authority, Miss Dolly," Lawrence said, looking at her, and not sure how far he might venture, "that wine 'maketh glad the heart of man.'"
"And on the same authority we have it that 'wine is a mocker.'"
"What will you do with contradictory authority?"
"They are not contradictory, those two words," said Dolly. "It is deceitful; it gets hold of a man, and then he cannot get loose from it. Youknow, Mr. St. Leger, what work it does."
"Notgoodwine," said her father, tossing off his glass. "That's fair; nothing extra. I think we can find better. Letitia, try it; I have a notion it will do you good;—ought to have been tried before."
And he filled his wife's glass, and then Dolly's, and then Rupert's. Dolly felt as nearly desperate as ever in her life. Her father had the air of a man who has broken through a slight barrier between him and comfort. Mrs. Copley sipped the wine. Lawrence looked observingly from one face to another. Then Dolly stretched out her hand and laid it upon Rupert's glass.
"Please stand by me, Rupert!" she begged.
"I will!" said the young man, smiling. "What do you want me to do?"
"Do as I do."
"I will."
Dolly lifted her glass and poured the contents of it into the nearly emptied chocolate jug. Rupert immediately followed her example.
"What's that for?" said her father, frowning.
"It's waste," added her mother. "I call that waste."
"Don't make yourself ridiculous, Dolly!" Mr. Copley went on. "My child, the world has drunk wine ever since before you were born, and it will go on drinking it after you are dead. What is the use of trying to change what cannot be changed? What canyoudo?"
"Father, I will not help a bad cause."
"How is it a bad cause, Miss Dolly?" said Lawrence now. "It is a certain pleasure,—but what harm?"
"Do you ask me that?" said she, with a look of her clear, womanly eyes, which it was not very pleasant to meet.
"Well, of course, if people misuse the thing,"—— he began.
"Do they often misuse it, Mr. St. Leger?"
"Well, yes; perhaps they do."
"Go on. What are the consequences, when they misuse it?"
"When people drink too much bad brandy of course—but wine likethisnever hurt anybody."
Dolly thought, it had hurtherthat day; but she could not trust her voice to say it. Her lips trembled, her beautiful eyes filled, she was obliged to wait. And how, there before her father whom the fruit of the vine had certainly hurt grievously, and before Mr. St. Leger who knew as much and had seen it, could she put the thing in words? Her father had chosen his time cruelly. And where was his promise? Dolly fought and swallowed and struggled with herself; and tried to regain command of voice.
"It's a narrow view, ray dear," said Mr. Copley, filling his glass again, to Dolly's infinite horror; "a narrow view. Well-bred people do not hold it. It is always a mistake to set yourself against the world. The world is generally right."
"O father, do you think so?"
"Not a doubt of it," said Mr. Copley, sipping the wine and looking from one to another of the faces in the little group. "Dolly is a foolish girl, Rupert; do not let her persuade you."
"It certainly is not the wine that is to be condemned," said Lawrence, "but the immoderate use of it. That's all."
"What do you call immoderate use of it?" Rupert asked now, putting the question in Dolly's interest.
"More than your head can bear," said Lawrence. "Keep within that limit, and you're all right."
"Suppose your neighbour cannot bear what you can?" said Dolly, looking at him. "And suppose your example tempts him?"
"It's his business to know what he can take," said Lawrence. "It isn't mine."
"But suppose he is drawn on by your example, and drinks more than he can bear? What follows, Mr. St. Leger?"
Dolly's voice had a pathetic clang which touched Rupert, and I think embarrassed Lawrence.
"If he is so unwise, of course he suffers for it. But as I said, that is his business."
"And not yours?"
"Of course not!" Mr. Copley broke in. "Dolly, you do not understand the world. How can I tell St. Leger how much he is to drink? or he tell me how much I must? Don't be absurd, child! You grow a little absurd, living alone."
"Father, I think the world might be better than it is. And one person helps on another for good or for evil. And St. Paul was not of your opinion."
"St. Paul? What did he say about it? That one must not drink wine? Not at all. He told Timothy, or somebody, to take it, for his stomach's sake."
"But he said,—that if meat made his brother to offend, he would eat no meat while the world stood, lest he made his brother to offend. And meat is certainly a good thing."
"Well, there are just two things about it," said Mr. Copley; "meat is not wine, and I am not St. Paul. A little more, Lawrence. If it is not a man's duty to look after his neighbour's potations, neither is it a woman's. Dolly is young; she will learn better."
If she did not, Lawrence thought, she would be an inconvenient helpmeet for him. He was very much in love; but certainly he would not wish his wife to take up a crusade against society. Perhaps Dollywouldlearn better; he hoped so. Yet the little girl had some reason, too; for her father gave her trouble, Lawrence knew. "I'm sorry," he thought, "deuced sorry! but really I can't be expected to take Mr. Copley, wine and all, on my shoulders. Really it is not my look-out."
Dolly went home very sober and careful. It is true, not much wine had been drunk that day. Yet she knew a line had been passed, the passing of which was significant of future licence, and introductory to it. And that it had been done in her presence was to prove to her that her influence could avail nothing. It was bravado. What lay before her now?
"Rupert," she said suddenly, as they were walking together, "let us make a solemn pledge, you and I, each to the other, that we will never drink wine nor anything of the sort; unless we must, for sickness, you know."
"What would be the good of that?" said the young man, laughing.
"I don't know," said Dolly, from whose eyes, on the contrary, hot tears began to drop. "Perhaps I shall save you, and you may save me; how can we tell?"
"But we could keep from it just the same, without pledging ourselves?" said Rupert, soberly enough now.
"Could; but we might be tempted. If we do this, maybe we can help other people, as well as each other."
The tears were coming so thick from Dolly's eyes that Rupert's heart was sore for her. She was brushing them away, right and left, but he saw them glitter and fall; and he thought the man who could, for the sake of a glass of wine, cause such tears to be shed, was—I won't say what he thought he was. He was mad against Mr. Copley and St. Leger too. He promised whatever Dolly wanted.
And when they were at home, and an opportunity was found, the agreement abovementioned was written out, and Rupert made two copies, and one of them he kept and one Dolly kept; both signed with both their names.
So Rupert was safe. From that day, however, things went less well with Mr. Copley. He began by small degrees to withdraw himself from the constant attendance upon his wife and daughter which he had hitherto practised, leaving them again to Lawrence's care. By little and little this came about. Mr. Copley excused himself in the morning, and was with them in the evening; then after a while he was missing in the evening. Dolly tried to hold him fast, by getting him to sit for his picture; and the very observation under which she held him so, showed her that he was suffering from evil influences. His eyes had lost something of their frank, manly sparkle; avoided hers; looked dull and unsteady. The lines of his whole face inexplicably were changed; an expression of feebleness and something like humiliation taking place of the alert, bold, self-sufficient readiness of look and tone which had been natural to him. Dolly read it all, with a heart torn in two, and painted it as she read it; making a capital picture of him. But it grieved Dolly sorely, while it delighted everybody else.
"What is it worth, father?" she asked, concealing as well as she could what she felt.
"Worth? it's worth anything you please. It is glorious, Dolly!"
"I work for money," she said archly.
"Upon my word, you could turn a pretty penny if you did. This is capital work," said he, turning to Lawrence. "If this had been done on ivory, now"——
"I did a likeness of Mr. St. Leger for his mother—that was on ivory. She sent me ten pounds for it."
"Ten pounds toher. To anybody else, I should say it was worth twenty,—well," said Mr. Copley.
"So I say, sir," Lawrence answered. "I am going to pay that price for my copy."
"Then will you pay me twenty pounds, sir?"
"I?" said Mr. Copley. "Not exactly, Dolly! I am not made of money, like your friend Lawrence here. Wish I could, and you should have it."
"Will you get me customers, then, father?"
"Customers!" echoed Mr. Copley.
"Yes. Because you are not made of money, you know, father; and I want a good deal of money."
"You!" said Mr. Copley, looking at her. For, indeed, Dolly had never been one of those daughters who make large demands on their father's purse. But Dolly answered now with a calm, practical tone and manner.
"Yes, I do, father; and mother has a longing for some of those Arabian Nights things in the curiosity shops. You know people enough here, father; show them your picture and get me customers."
"Don't be ridiculous, Dolly," said her father. "We are not at the point of distress yet. And," he added in a graver tone, as Lawrence left the room, "you must remember, that even if I were willing to see my daughter working as a portrait-painter, Mr. St. Leger might have a serious objection to his wife doing it—or a lady who is to be his wife."
"Mr. St. Leger may dispose of his wife when he gets her," said Dolly calmly. "I am not that lady."
"Yes, you are."
"Not if I know anything about it."
"Then you don't!" said Mr. Copley. "It is proverbial that girls never know their own minds. Why, Dolly, it would be the making of you, child."
"No, father; only of my dresses."
Mr. Copley was a little provoked.
"What's your objection to St. Leger? Can you give one?" he asked hotly.
"Father, he doesn't suit me."
"You don't like him, because you don't like him. A real woman's reason! Isn't he handsome?"
"Very. And sleepy."
"He's wide awake enough for purposes of business."
"Maybe; not for purposes of pleasure. Father, beautiful paintings and grand buildings are nothing to him; nothing at all; and music might be the tinkling of tin kettles for all the meaning he finds in it. Father, dear, do get me some customers!"
"You are a silly girl, Dolly!" said her father, breaking away, and not very well pleased. Neither did he bring her customers. Those were not the days of photographs. Dolly took to painting little bits of views in Venice; here a palace; there a bridge over a canal; the pillars with the dragon and St. Theodore, the Place of St. Mark, bits of the Riva with boats; she finished up these little pictures with great care and delicacy of execution, and then employed Rupert to dispose of them in the stationers' and fancy shops. He had some difficulty at first in finding the right market for her wares; however, he finally succeeded; and Dolly could sell as many pictures as she could paint. True, not for a great price; they did not pay so well as likenesses; but Dolly took what she could get, feeling very uncertain of supplies for a time that was coming. Mr. Copley certainly was not flush with his money now; and she did not flatter herself that his ways were mending.
Less and less did his wife and daughter see of his company.
"Rupert," said Dolly doubtfully, one day, "do you know where my father goes, so much of the time?"
"No," said Rupert; "that's just what I don't. But I can find out, easy."
Dolly did not say, Do; she did not say anything; she stood pondering and anxious by the window. Neither did Rupert ask further; he acted.
It came by degrees to be a pretty regular thing, that Mr. Copley spent the evening abroad, excused himself from going anywhere with his family, and when they did see him wore an uncertain, purposeless, vagrant sort of look and air. By degrees this began to strike even Mrs. Copley.
"I wish you would just make up your mind to marry Mr. St. Leger!" she said almost weepingly one day. "Then all would go right. I believe it would make me well, to begin with; and it would bring your father right back to his old self."
"How, mother?" Dolly said sadly.
"It would give him spirit at once. It is because he is out of spirits that he does so." (Mrs. Copley did not explain herself.) "I know, if he were once sure of seeing you Mrs. St. Leger, all would come right. Lawrence would help him; hecouldhelp him then."
"Who would help me?"
"Nonsense, Dolly! Who would help you choose your dresses and wear your diamonds; that is all the difficulty you would have. But all's going wrong!" said Mrs. Copley, sinking into tears; "and you are selfish, like everybody else, and think only of yourself."
Dolly bore this in silence. It startled her, however, greatly, to find her own view of things held by her much less sharp-sighted mother. She pondered on what was best to do. Should she sit still and quietly see her father lost irretrievably in the bad habits which were creeping upon him? But what step could she take? She asked herself this question evening after evening.
It was late one night, and Lawrence as well as her father had been out ever since dinner. Mrs. Copley, weary and dispirited, had gone to bed. Dolly stood at the window looking out, not to see how the moonlight sparkled on the water and glanced on the vessels, but in a hopeless sort of expectancy watching for her father to come. The stream of passers-by had grown thin, and was growing thinner.
"Rupert," Dolly spoke after a long silence, "do you know where my father is?"
"Can't say I do. I could give a pretty fair guess, though, if you asked me."
"Could you take me to him?"
"Take you to him!" exclaimed the young man, starting.
"Can you find the way? Where is it?"
"I've been there often enough," said Rupert.
"What place is it?"
"The queerest place you ever saw. Do you recollect Mr. St. Leger telling us once about wine-shops in Venice? You and he were talking"——
"Yes, yes, I remember. Is it one of those? Not a café?"
"Not a café at all; neither a café nor a trattoria. Just a wine-shop. Nothing in it but wine casks, and the mugs or jugs of white and blue crockery that they draw the wine into; it's the most ridiculous place altogether I ever was in. I haven't been in it now, that's a fact."
"What were you there for so often, then?"
"Well," said Rupert, "I was looking after things."
"Drink wine and eat nothing!" said Dolly again. "Are there many people there?"
"Well, you can eat if you have a mind to; there are folks enough to sell you things; though they don't belong to the establishment. They come in from the street, with ever so many sorts of things, directly they see a customer sit down; fish and oysters, and cakes and fruit. But the shop sells nothing but wine. Mr. St. Leger says that is good."
"Not many people there?" Dolly asked again.
"No; not unless at a busy time. There won't be many there now, I guess."
"What makes you think my father is there?"
"I've seen him there pretty often," Rupert said in a low voice.
Dolly stood some minutes silent, thinking, and struggling with herself. When she turned to Rupert at the end of those minutes, her air was quite composed and her voice was clear and calm.
"Can you take me there, Rupert? Can you find the way?"
"I know it as well as the way to my mouth. You see, I didn't know but maybe—I couldn't tell what you might take a notion to want me to do; so I just practised, till I had got the ins and outs of the thing. And there are a good many ins and outs, I can tell you. But I know them."
"Then we will go," said Dolly. "I'll be ready in two minutes."
It was a brilliant moonlight night, as I said. Venice, the bride of the Adriatic, lay as if robed in silver for her wedding. The air was soft, late as the time of year was; Dolly had no need of any but a light wrap to protect her in her midnight expedition. Rupert called a gondola, and presently they were gliding along, as still as ghosts, under the shadow of bridges, past glistening palace fronts, again in the deep shade of a wall of buildings. Wherever the light struck it was like molten silver; façades and carvings stood sharply revealed; every beauty of the weird city seemed heightened and spiritualised; almost glorified; while the silence, the outward peace, gave still more the impression of a place fair-like and unreal. It was truly a wonderful sail, a marvellous passage through an enchanted city, never to be forgotten by either of the two young people; who went for some distance in a silence as if a spell were upon them too.
At Dolly's age, with all its elasticity, some aspects of trouble are more overwhelming than in later years. When one has not measured life, not learned yet the relations and proportions of things, one imagines the whole earth darkened by the cloud which is but hiding the sun from the spot where our feet stand. And before one has seen what wonders Time can do, the ruin wrought by an avalanche or a flood seems irreparable. It is inconceivable, that the bare and torn rocks should be clothed again, the choking piles of rubbish ever be anything but dismal and unsightly, the stripped fields ever be green and flourishing, or the torn-up trees be ever replaced. Yet Time does it all. Come after a while to look again, and the traces of past devastation are not easy to find; nature's weaving has so covered, and nature's embroidery has so adorned, the bald places. In human life there is something like this often done; though, as I said, youth wots not of it and does not believe in it. So Dolly this night saw her little life a wilderness, which had been a garden of flowers. Some flowers might be lifting their heads yet, but what Dolly looked at was the destruction. Wrought by her own father's hand! I cannot tell how that thought stung and crushed Dolly. What would anything else in the world have mattered, so she could have kept him? help could have been found; but to losehim, her father, and not by death, but by change, by dishonour, by loss of his identity—Dolly felt indeed that a storm had come upon the little garden of her life from the sweeping ruin of which there could be no revival. She could hardly hold her head up for a long distance of that midnight sail; yet she did, and noted as they passed the fairy glories of the scene. Just noted them, to deepen, if possible, the pangs at her heart. All this beauty, all this outward delight, mocked the inner reality; and made sharp the sense of it with the contrast of what might have been. As they went along, Venice became to her fancy a grave and monument of lost things, which floated together in her mind's vision. Past struggles for freedom, beaten back or faded out; vanished patriotism and art, with their champions; extinct ambitions and powers; historical glories evaporated, as it were, leaving only a scent upon the air; what was left at Venice but monuments? and like it now her own little life gone out and gone down! For so it seemed to Dolly. Even if she succeeded in her mission, and brought her father home, what safety, what security could she have? And if she didnotbring him—then all was lost indeed. It was lost anyhow, she thought, as far as her own life was concerned. Her father could not be what he had been again. "O father! my father!" was poor Dolly's bitter cry, "if you had taken anything else from me, and only left me yourself!"
After a long time, when she spoke to Rupert, it was in a quiet, unaltered voice.
"Is this the shortest way, Rupert?"
"As like as not it's the longest. But, you see, it's the only way I know. I've always got there starting from the Place of St. Mark; and that way I know what I am about; but though I daresay there's a short cut home, I've never been it, and don't know it."
Dolly added no more.
"It's a bit of a walk from St. Mark's," Rupert went on. "Do you mind?"
"No," said Dolly, sighing. "Rupert, I wish you were a Christian friend! You are a good friend, but I wish you were a Christian!"
"Why just now?"
"Nobody else can give one comfort. You cannot, Rupert, with all the will in the world; there is no comfort in anything you could tell me. I have only one Christian friend on this side of the Atlantic; and that is Mrs. Jersey; and she might as well be in America too, where Aunt Hal is!"
Dolly was crying. It went to Rupert's heart.
"What could a Christian friend say to you?" he asked at length.
"Remind me of something, or of some words, that I ought to remember," said Dolly, still weeping.
"Of what?" said Rupert. "If you know, tell me. Remind yourself; that's as good as having some one else remind you. What comfort is there in religion for a great trouble? Is there any?"
"Yes," said Dolly.
"What then? Tell us, Miss Dolly. I may want it some time, as well as you."
"I suppose everybody is pretty sure to want it, some time in his life," said Dolly sadly, but trying to wipe away her tears.
"Let's have the comfort then," said Rupert, "if you've got it."
"Why, areyouin trouble, Rupert?" she said, rousing up. "What about?"
"Never mind; let's have the comfort; that's the thing wanted just now. What would you say to me now if I wanted it pretty bad?"
"The trouble is, it is so hard to believe what God says," Dolly said, speaking half to herself and half to her companion.
"What does He say? Is it anything a fellow can take hold of and hold on to? I never could make out much by what I've heard folks tell; and I never heard much anyhow, to begin with."
"One of the things that are good to me," said Dolly, bowing her face on her hand, "is—that Jesus knows."
"Knows what?"
"All about it—everything—my trouble, and your trouble, if you have any."
"I don't see the comfort in that. If He knows, why don't He hinder? I suppose Hecanhinder?"
"He does hinder whatever would be real harm to His people; He has promised that."
"Well, ain't this real harm, that is worrying you?" said Rupert. "What do you call harm?"
"Pain and trouble are not always harm," said Dolly, "for His children often have them, I know; and no trouble seems sweet at the minute, but bitter; and the sweet fruits come afterward. Oh, it's so bitter now!" cried poor Dolly, unable to keep the tears back again;—"but He knows. He knows."
"If He knows," said Rupert, wholly unable to understand this reasoning, "why doesn't He hinder? That's what I look at."
"I don't know," said Dolly faintly.
"What comforts you in that, then?" said Rupert almost impatiently. "That's too big a mouthful for me."
"No, you're wrong," said Dolly. "He knows why. I have the comfort of that, and so I am sure thereisa why. It is not all vague chance and confusion, with no hand to rule anything. Don't you see what a difference that makes?"