"Do you mean to say, that everything that happens is for the best?"
"No," said Dolly. "Wrong can never be as good as right. Only, Rupert, God will so manage things that to His children—to His children—good shall come out of evil, and nothing really hurt them."
"Then the promise is only for them?"
"That's all. How could it be for the others?"
"I don't see it," said Rupert. "Seems to my eyes as if black was black and white white; it's the fault of my eyes, I s'pose. It is only moonshine to my eyes, that makes black white."
"Rupert, you do not understand. I will tell you. You know the story of Joseph. Well, when his brothers tried to murder him, that was what you call evil, wasn't it?"
"Black, and no moonshine on it."
"Yet it led to his being sold into Egypt."
"What was the moonshine on that? He was a slave, warn't he?"
"But that brought him to be governor of Egypt; he was the means of the plenty in the land through those years of famine; and by his power and influence his family was placed in the best of the land when starvation drove them down there."
"But why must he be sold a slave to begin with?"
"Good reasons. As a servant of Potiphar he learned to know all about the land and its produce and its cultivation, and the peasant people that cultivated it. If it had not been for the knowledge he gained as a slave, Joseph could never have known what to do as a governor."
"I never thought of that," said Rupert, his tone changing.
"Then when he was thrown into prison,youwould have said that was a black experience too?"
"I should, and no mistake."
"And there, among the great prisoners of state, he learned to know about the politics of the country, and heard what he never could have heard talked about anywhere else; and there, by interpreting their dreams, he recommended himself to the high officers of Pharaoh. Except through the prison, it is impossible to see how he, a poor foreigner, could ever have come to be so distinguished at the king's court; for the Egyptians hated and despised foreigners."
"I'll be whipped if that ain't a good sermon," said Rupert drily; "and what's more, I can understand it, which I can't most sermons I've heard. But look here,—do you think God takes the same sort of look-out for common folks? Joseph was Joseph."
"The care comes of His goodness, not out of our worthiness," said Dolly, the tears dripping from her eyes. "To Him, Dolly is Dolly, and Rupert is Rupert, just as truly. I know it, and yet I am so ungrateful!"
"But tell me, then," Rupert went on, "how comes it that God, who can do everything, does not make people good right off? Half the trouble in the world comes of folks' wrong-headedness; why don't He make 'em reasonable?"
"He tries to make them reasonable."
"Tries!Why don't He do it?"
"You, for instance," said Dolly—"because He has given you the power of choice, Rupert; and you know yourself that obedience would not be obedience if it were not voluntary."
On this theological nut Rupert ruminated, without finding anything to say.
"You have comforted me," Dolly went on presently. "Thank you, Rupert. You have made me remember what I had forgotten. Just look at that palace front in the moonlight!"
"The world's a queer place, though," said Rupert, not heeding the palace front.
"What are you thinking of?"
"This city, for one thing. I've been, reading that book you lent me. Hasn't there been confusion enough, though, up and down these canals, and in and out of those palaces! and the rest of the world is pretty much in the same way. Only in America it ain't quite so bad. I suppose because we haven't had time enough."
It was past twelve by the clock tower when the two left the gondola and entered the Place of St. Mark. The old church with its cupolas, the open Place, the pillars with St. Theodore and the dragon, the palace of the Doges with its open stone work, showed like a scene out of another world; so unearthly beautiful, so weird and so stately. There had been that day some festival or public occasion which had called the multitude together, and lingerers were still to be seen here and there, and the windows of cafés and trattorie were lighted, and the buzz of voices came from them. Dolly and Rupert crossed the square, however, without more than a moment's lingering, and plunged presently into what seemed to her a labyrinth of confused ways. Such ways! an alley in New York would be broad in comparison; two women in hoops would have been obliged to use some skill to pass each other; they threaded the old city in the strangest manner. Rupert went steadily and without hesitation, Dolly wondered how he could, through one into another, up and down, over bridge after bridge, clearly knowing his way; yet it was a nervous walk to her, for more than one reason. Sometimes the whole line of one of these narrow streets, if they could be called so, would be perfectly dark; the moonlight not getting into it, and only glittering on a palace cornice or a street corner in view; others, lying right for the moonbeams, were flooded with them from one turning to another. Most of the shops were closed; but the sellers of fruit had not shut up their windows yet, and now and then a cook-shop made a most peculiar picture, with its blazing fire at the back, and its dishes of cooked and uncooked viands temptingly displayed at the street front. Steadily and swiftly Rupert and Dolly passed on; saw these things without stopping to look at them, but yet saw them so that in all after-life those peculiar effects of light and shade, fireshine and moonlight, Italian fruits and vegetables, and fish coloured by the one or the other illumination, were never lost from memory. Here there would be a red Vulcanic glow in the interior of a shop where the furnace fire was flaming up about the pots and pans of cookery; and at the street front, at the window, the moonlight glinting white from the edge of a dish, or glancing from a pane of glass; and then again reflected from the still waters of a canal. The two saw these things, and never forgot; but Dolly was silent and Rupert did not know what to say. Yet he thought he felt her arm tremble sometimes, and would have given a great deal to be able to speak to the purpose. Perhaps Dolly at length found the need of distraction to her thoughts, for she it was that first said anything.
"I hope mother will not wake up!"
"Why?"
"She would not understand my being away."
"Then she does not know?"
"I did not dare tell her. I had to risk it. I do not want her ever to know, Rupert, if it can be helped."
"She'll be no wiser for me. What are you going to do now, Miss Dolly? We ain't far off the place."
"I am going to get my father to go home with me. You needn't come in. Better not. You go back to the gondola and wait there for a little say—a quarter or half an hour; if I do not come before that, then go on home."
"But you cannot go anywhere alone?"
"Oh no; I shall have father; but I cannot tell which way he may take to get home. You go back to the gondola,—or no, be in front of St. Mark's; that would be better."
"I am afraid to leave you, Miss Dolly."
"You need not. One gets to places where there is nothing to fear any more."
Rupert was not sure what she meant; her voice had a peculiar cadence which struck him. Then they turned another corner, and a few steps ahead of them saw the light from a window making a strip of illumination across the street, which here was unvisited by the moonbeams.
"That is the place," said Rupert.
Dolly slackened her walk, and the next minute paused before the window and looked in. The light was not brilliant, yet sufficient to show several men within, some sitting and drinking, some in attendance; and Dolly easily recognised one among the former number. She drew her arm from Rupert's.
"Now go back to St. Mark's," she whispered. "I wish it. Yes, I would rather go in alone. Wait for me a little while in front of St. Mark's."
She stood still yet half a minute, making her observations or getting up her resolution; then with a light, swift step passed into the shop. Rupert could not obey her and go at once; he felt he must see what she did and what her reception promised to be; he came a little nearer to the window and gazed anxiously in. The minutes he stood there burned the scene for ever into his memory.
The light shone in a wide, spacious apartment, which it but gloomily revealed. There was nothing whatever of the outward attractions with which in New York or London a drinking saloon, not of a low order, would have been made pleasant and inviting. The wine had need to be good, thought Rupert, when men would come to such a place as this and spend time there, simply for the pleasure of drinking it. Yet several men were there, taking that pleasure, even so late as the hour was; and they were respectable men, at least if their dress could be taken in testimony. They sat with mugs and glasses before them; one had a plate of olives also, another had some other tit-bit or provocative; one seemed to be in converse with Mr. Copley, who was not beyond converse yet, though Rupert saw he had been some time drinking. His face was flushed a little, his eyes dull, his features overspread with that inane stupidity which comes from long-continued and purely sensual indulgence of any kind, especially under the fumes of wine. To the side of this man, Rupert saw Dolly go. She went in, as I said, with a light, quick step, looked at nobody else, made straight to her father, and laid a hand upon his shoulder. With that she threw back her head-covering a little,—it was some sort of a scarf, of white and brown worsted knitting, which lay around her head like a glory, in Rupert's eyes,—and showed her face to her father. Fair and delicate and sweet, bright and grave at once, for shedidlook bright even there, she stood at his side like his good angel, with her little hand upon his shoulder. No wonder Mr. Copley started and looked frightened; that was the first look; and then confused. Rupert understood it all, though he could not hear what was said. He saw the man was embarrassed.
"Dolly!" said Mr. Copley, falling back upon his first thought, as the easiest to speak of,—"what is the matter?"
"Nothing with me, father. Will you take me home?"
"Where's your mother?"
"She is at home. But it is pretty late, father."
"Where's Lawrence?"
"I don't know."
"Where is Rupert, then?"
"He is out, somewhere. Will you go home with me, father?"
"How did you come here?" said Mr. Copley, sitting a little straighter up, and now beginning to replace or conceal confusion with displeasure.
"I will tell you. I will tell you on the way. But shall we go first, father? I don't like to stay here."
"Here? What in the name of ten thousand devils—— Who brought you here?"
"I am alone," said Dolly. "Hadn't we better go, father? and then we can talk as we go."
At this point a half tipsy Venetian rose, and stepping before the pair with a low reverence, said something to Mr. Copley, of which Dolly only understood the words, "La bella signorina;" they made her, however, draw her scarf forward over her face and brought Mr. Copley to his feet. He could stand, she saw, but whether he could walk very well was open to question.
"Signer, signor"—— he began, stammering and incensed. Dolly seized his arm.
"Shall we go, father? It is so late, and mother might want me. It is very late, father. Never mind anything, but come!"
Mr. Copley was sufficiently himself to see the necessity; nevertheless, his score must be paid; and his head was in a bad condition for reckoning. He brought out some silver from his pocket, and stood somewhat helplessly looking at it and at the shopman alternately; then with an awkward movement of his elbow contrived to throw over a glass, which fell on the floor and broke. Everybody was looking now at the father and daughter, and words came to Dolly's ears which made her cheek burn. But she stood calm, self-possessed, waiting with a somewhat lofty air of maidenly dignity; helped her father solve the reckoning, paid for the glass, and at last got hold of his arm and drew him away; after a gentle, grave salutation to the attendant which he answered profoundly, and which brought everybody in the little shop to his feet in involuntary admiration and respect. Dolly looked at nobody, yet with sweet courtesy made a distant sign of acknowledgment to their homage, and the next minute stood outside the shop in the dark little street and the mild, still air. I think, even at that minute, with the strange, startling inappropriateness of license which thoughts give themselves, there flashed across her a sense of the ironical contrast of things without and within her; without, Venice and her historical past and her monumental glory; within, a trembling little heart and present danger and a burden of dishonour. But that was only a flash; the needs of the minute banished all thinking that was not connected with action; and the moment's business was to get her father home. She had no thought now for the picturesque revealings of the moonlight and obscurings of the shadow. Yet she was conscious of them, in that sharp flash of contrast.
At getting upon his feet and out into the air and gloom of the little street, Mr. Copley's head was very contused; or else he had taken more wine than his daughter guessed. He was not fit to guide himself, or to take care of her. As he seemed utterly at a standstill, Dolly naturally and unconsciously set her face to go the way she had come; for one or two turnings at least she was sure of it. Before those one or two turnings were made, however, she was shocked and scared to find that her father's walk was wavering; he swayed a little on his feet. The street was empty; and if it had not been, what help could Dolly ask for? A pang of great terror shot through her. She took her father's arm, to endeavour to hold him fast; a task rather too much for her little hands and slight frame; and feeling that in spite of her he still moved unsteadily, and that she was an insufficient help, Dolly's anguish broke forth in a cry; natural enough in its unreasoningness—
"O father, don't!—remember, I am all alone!"
How much was in the tone of those last words Dolly could not know; they hardly reached Mr. Copley's sense, though they went through and through another hearer. The next minute Rupert stood before the pair, and was offering his arm to Mr. Copley. Not trusting his patron, in the circumstances, to take care of his young mistress, Rupert had disobeyed her orders so far as to keep the two figures in sight; he had watched them from one turning to another, and had seen that his help was needed, even before he heard Dolly's cry. Then, with a spring, he was there. Mr. Copley leaned now upon his arm, and Dolly fell behind, thankful unspeakably for the relief. She knew by this time that she could never have found her way; and it was plain her father could not.
"Rupert," said Mr. Copley, half recognising the assistance afforded him, "you're a good fellow, and always in the way when you aren't wanted, by George!" But he leaned on his arm heavily.
Dolly followed close; she could not well keep beside them; and felt in that hour more thoroughly lonely perhaps than at any other of her life before or after. Rupert was a relief; and yet so the shame was increased. She stepped along through moonlight and shadow, feeling that light was gone out of her pathway of life for ever, as far as this world was concerned. What was left, when her father was lost to her?—her father!—and not by death;thatwould not have been to lose him utterly; but now his very identity was gone. Her father, whom all her life she had loved; manly, frank, able, active, taking the lead in every society where she had seen him, making other men do his bidding always, until the passion of gaining and the lust of drink got hold of him! Was it the same, that figure in front of her, leaning on somebody's arm and glad to lean, and going with lame, unsteady gait whither he was led, so like the way his mental course had been lately? Was that her father? The bitterness of Dolly's feeling it is impossible to put into words. Tears could bring no relief, and nature did not summon them to the impossible service. The fire at her heart would have burnt them up; for there was a strange passion of resistance and sense of wrong mixed with Dolly's bitter pain. The way was not short, and it seemed threefold the length it was; every step was so hard, and the crowd of thoughts was so disproportionately great.
They were rather ruminating thoughts of grief and pain, than considerative of what was to be done. For the first, the thing was to get Mr. Copley home. Dolly did not look beyond that. She was glad to find herself arrived at St. Mark's again; and presently they were all three in the gondola. Mr. Copley leaned in a corner, laid his head against a cushion, and slept, or seemed to sleep. The other two were as silent; but I think both felt at the moment as if they would never sleep again. Rupert's face was in shadow; he watched Dolly's face which was in light. She forgot it could be watched; her eyes stared into the moonshine, not seeing it, or looking through it; the sweet face was so very grave that the watcher felt his heart ache. Not the gentle gravity of young maidenhood, looking into the vague light; but the anxious, searching gaze of older life looking into the vague darkness. Rupert did not dare speak to her, though he longed. What would he not have given for the right and the power to comfort! But he knew he had neither. He had sense enough not to try.
It was customary for Mr. Copley, after he had been late out at night, to keep to his room until a late hour the next morning; so Dolly knew what she had to expect. It suited her very well this time, for she must think what she would say to her father when she next saw him. She took care that a cup of coffee such as he liked was sent him; and then, after her own slight breakfast, sat down to plan her movements. So Rupert found her, with her Bible in her lap, but not reading; sitting gazing out upon the bright waters of the lagoon. He came up to her, with a depth of understanding and sympathy in his plain features which greatly dignified them.
"Does that help?" said he, glancing at the book in Dolly's lap.
"This?" said Dolly. "What other help in the world is there?"
"Friends?" suggested Rupert.
"Yes, you were a great help last night," Dolly said slowly. "But there come times—and things—when friends cannot do anything."
"And then—what does the book do?"
"The book?" Dolly repeated again. "O Rupert! it tells of the Friend that can do everything!" Her eyes flushed with tears and she clasped her hands as she spoke.
"What?" said Rupert; for her action was eloquent, and he was curious; and besides he liked to make her talk.
Dolly looked at him and saw that the question was serious. She opened her book.
"Listen. 'Let your conversation be without covetousness; and be content with such things as ye have; for He hath said, I will never leave thee nor forsake thee. So that we may boldly say, The Lord is my helper, and I will not fear what man shall do unto me.'"
"That makes pretty close work of it. Can you get hold of that rope? and how much strain will it bear?"
"I believe it will bear anything," said Dolly slowly and thoughtfully; "if one takes hold with both hands. I guess the trouble with me is, that I only take hold with one."
"What do you do with the other hand?"
"Stretch it out towards something else, I suppose. For, see here, Rupert;—'Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on Thee; because he trusteth in Thee.'—I am just ashamed of myself!" said Dolly, breaking down and bursting into tears.
"What for?" said Rupert.
"Because I do not trust so."
"I should think it would be very difficult."
"It ought not to be difficult to trust a friend whose truth you know. There! that has done me good," said the girl, sitting up and brushing away the tears. "Rupert, if there is anything you want to see or to do here in Venice, be about it; for I think we shall go off to Rome at once."
She told the same thing to St. Leger when he came in; and having got rid of both the young men set herself anew to consider how she should speak to her father. And consideration helped nothing; she could not tell; she had to leave it to the moment to decide.
It was late in the morning, later than the usual hour for the déjeuner à la fourchette, which Mr. Copley liked. He did not want anything to-day, his wife said; and she and Dolly and Rupert had finished their meal. Dolly contrived then that her mother should go out under Rupert's convoy, to visit the curiosity shop again, (nothing else would have tempted her), and to make one or two little purchases for which Dolly gave Rupert the means. When they were fairly off, she went to her father's room; he was up and dressed, she knew. She went with a very faint heart, not knowing in the least what she would do or say, but feeling that something must be said and done, both.
Mr. Copley was sitting listlessly in a chair by the window; miserable enough, Dolly could see by the gloomy blank of his face; looking out, and caring for nothing that he saw. His features showed traces of the evening before, in red eyes and pale cheeks; and yet worse, in the spiritless, abased expression, which was more than Dolly could bear. She had come in very quietly, but when she saw this she made one spring to his side and sank down on the floor before him, hiding her face on his knee. Mr. Copley's trembling hand presently lifted her up into his arms, and Dolly sat on his knee and buried her face in his breast. Neither of them was ready to speak; neither did speak for some time. It was Mr. Copley who began.
"Well, Dolly,—I suppose you will say to me that I have broken my word?"
"O father!"—it came in a sort of despair from Dolly's heart,—"what shall we do?"
Mr. Copley had certainly no answer ready to this question; and his next words were a departure.
"How came you to be at that place last night?"
"I was afraid you were there"——
"How did you dare come poking about through all those crooked ways, and at that time of night?"
"Father," Dolly said, without lifting her head, "that was nothing. I dared nothing, compared with what you dared!"
"I? You are mistaken, child. I did not run the slightest risk. In fact, I was only doing what everybody else does. You make much of nothing, in your inexperience."
"Father," said Dolly, with a great effort, "you promised me. And when a man cannot keep his promise"——
She had meant to be perfectly quiet; she had begun very calmly; but at that word, suddenly, her calmness failed her. It was too much; and with a sort of wailing cry, which in its forlornness reached and wrung even Mr. Copley's nerves, she broke into a terrible passion of weeping. Terrible! young hearts ought never to know such an agony; and never, never should such an agony be known for the shame or even the weakness of a father. The hand appointed to shield, the love which ought to shelter,—when the blow comes fromthatquarter, it finds the heart bare and defenceless indeed, and comes so much the harder in that it comes from so near. No other more distant can give such a stroke. And to the young heart, unaccustomed to sorrow, new to life, not knowing how many its burdens and how heavy; not knowing on the other hand the equalising, tempering effects of time; the first great pain comes crushing. The shoulders are not adjusted to the burden, and they feel as if they must break. Dolly's sobs were so convulsive and racking that her father was startled and shocked. What had he done? Alas, the man never knows what he has done; he cannot understand how women die, before their time, that death of the heart which is out of the range of masculine nature.
"Dolly!—Dolly!" Mr. Copley cried, "what is the matter? Don't, Dolly, if you love me. My child, what have I done? Don't you knoweverybodytakes a little wine? Are you wiser than all the world?"
"You promised, father!" Dolly managed to say.
"Perhaps I promised too much. You see, Dolly,—don'tcry so!—a man must do as the rest of the world do. It isn't possible to live a separate life, as you would have me. It would make me ridiculous. It would not do. There's no harm in a little wine, child."
"Father, you promised!" Dolly repeated, clinging to him. She was not shrinking away; her arms of love were wrapped round his neck as tenderly as even in old childish days; they had power over Mr. Copley, power which he could not quite resist nor break away from. He returned their pressure, he even kissed her, feeling, I am happy to say, a little ashamed of himself.
"You don't want me to be ridiculous, Dolly?" he repeated, not knowing what to say.
What should she answer to that? No, she did not want him to be ridiculous; and as he spoke she recalled the staggering, impotent figure of last night, in its unmanly feebleness and senseless idiocy. A sense of the difficulty of her task and the vanity of her representations came over Dolly; it gave her new food for tears, but the present effect was to make her stop them. I suppose despair does not weep. Dolly was not despairing, either.
"What shall we do, father?" she asked, ignoring all his remarks and suggestions.
"Do, Dolly? About what?"
"Don't you think we will not stay any longer in Venice?"
"For all I care! Where, then?"
"To Rome, father?"
"I thought you were to be in Rome at Christmas?"
"It is not so very long till Christmas."
"Is your mother agreed?"
"She will be, if you say so."
"If it pleases you, Dolly—I don't care."
"And, father, dear father! won't you keep your promise to me? What is to become of us, father?"
Some bitter tears flowed again as she said this quietly; but Mr. Copley knew they were flowing, and he had an intuitive sense that they were bitter. They embarrassed him.
"I'll make a bargain, Dolly," he said after a pause. "I'll do what you want of me—anything you want—if you'll marry St. Leger."
"But, father, I have not made up my mind to like him enough for that."
"You will like him well enough. If you were to marry him you would be devoted to him. I know you."
"I think the devotion ought to come first."
"Nonsense. That is romantic folly. Novels are one thing, and real life is another."
"I daresay; but do you object to people's being a little romantic?"
"When it interferes with their bread and butter, I do."
"Father, if you would drink no wine, we could all of us have as much bread and butter as we choose."
"You are always harping on that!" said Mr. Copley, frowning.
"Because, our whole life depends on it, father. You cannot bear wine as some people can, I suppose; the habit is growing on you; mother and I are losing you, we do not even have but half a sight of you; and—father—we are wanting necessaries. But I do not think ofthat," Dolly went on eagerly; "I do not care; I am willing to live on dry bread, and work for the means to get it; but I cannot bear to lose you, father! I cannot bear it!—and it will kill mother. She does not know; I have kept her from knowing; she knows nothing about what happened last night. O father, do not let her know! Would anything pay you for breaking her heart and mine? Is wine more to you than we are? O father, father! let us go home to America, and quit all these people and associations that make it so hard for you to be yourself. I want you to be your dear old self, father! Your dear self, that I love"——
Dolly's voice was choked, and she sobbed. Mr. Copley was not quite insensible. He was silent a good while, hearing her sobs, and then he groaned; a groan partly of real feeling, partly, I am afraid, of desire to have the scene ended; the embarrassment and the difficulty disposed of and behind him. But he thought it had been an expression of deeper feeling solely.
"I'll do anything you like, my dear child," he said. "Only stop crying. You break my heart."
"Father, will you really do something if I ask you?"
"Anything! Only stop crying so."
"Then, father, write and sign it, that you will not ever touch wine. Rupert and I have taken such a pledge already."
"What is the use of writing and signing? I don't see. A man can let it alone without that."
"He can, if he wants to let it alone; but if he is very much tempted, then the pledge is a help."
"What did you and Rupert do such a thing as that for?"
"I wanted to save him."
"Makehimtake the pledge, then. Why you?"
"How could I ask him to do what I would not do myself? But I've done it, father; now will you join us?"
"Pshaw!" said Mr. Copley, displeased. "Now you have incapacitated yourself from appearing as others do in society. How would you refuse, if you were asked to drink wine with somebody at a dinner-table?"
"Very easily. I should think all women would refuse," said Dolly. "Father, will you join us, and let us all be unfashionable and happy together?"
"Did St. Leger pledge himself?"
"I have not asked him."
"Well, I will if he will."
"For him, father, and not for me?" said Dolly.
"Ask him," said Mr. Copley. "I'll do as he does."
"Father, you might set an example to him."
"I'll let him set the example for me," said Mr. Copley rising. And Dolly could get no further.
But it was settled that they were to leave Venice. What was to be gained by this step Dolly did not quite know; yet it was a step, that was something. It was something, too, to get out of the neighbourhood of that wine-shop, of which Dolly thought with horror. What might await them in Rome she did not know; at least the bonds of habit in connection with a particular locality would be broken. And Venice was grown odious to her.
They went to Rome.
Dolly had little comfort from her conversation with her father. She turned over in her mind his offer to quit wine if St. Leger would do the same. St. Leger would not give any such pledge, Dolly was very clearly aware; except, indeed, she paid him for it with another pledge on her part. With such a bribe she believed he would do it, or anything else that might be asked of him. Smooth and quiet as the young gentleman was outwardly, he had a power of self-will; as was shown by his persistence in following her. Dolly was obliged to confess that his passion was true and strong. If she would have him, no doubt, at least she believed there was no doubt, Lawrence would agree to be unfashionable and drink no more wine to the day of his death for her sake. If he agreed to that, her father would agree to it; both of them would be saved from that danger. Dolly pondered. Ought she to pay the price? Should she sacrifice herself, and be the wife of a rich banker, and therewith keep her father and all of them from ruin? Very soberly Dolly turned the whole thing over in her mind; back and forward; and always she was certain on one point,—that she did not want to be Lawrence's wife; and to her simple, childlike perceptions another thing also seemed clear; that it is a bad way to escape one wrong by doing another. She always brought up with that. And so, she could not venture and did not venture to attack Lawrence on the wine question. She knew it would be in vain.
Meanwhile, they were in Rome. Two of the gentlemen being skilled travellers, they had presently secured a very tolerable apartment; not in the best situation, indeed, but so neither was it of the most expensive sort; and clubbing their resources, were arranged comfortably enough to feel quite at home. And immediately Dolly began to use her advantage and see Rome. Mrs. Copley had no curiosity to see anything; all her wish was to sit at her window or by her fire and talk to her husband; and as Mr. Copley shared her lack of enterprise and something withheld him from seeking either gambling or drinking-shops, Dolly could go out with an easy mind, and give herself undividedly to the intense enjoyment of the place and the time. Yes, undividedly; for she was eighteen, and at eighteen one has a power of, for a time, throwing off trouble. Trouble was on her, she knew; and, nevertheless, when Dolly found herself in the streets of Rome, or in presence of its wonders of art or marvels of antiquity, she and trouble parted company. She forgot all but the present; or even if she did not forget, she disregarded. Her spirit took a momentary leap above all that ordinarily held it down, and revelled, and rejoiced, and expanded, and rose into a region of pure exquisite life. Rupert, who always accompanied her, was rather opening the eyes of his mind, and opening them very wide indeed, and as is the case with eyes newly opened, not seeing very clearly; yet taking great pleasure in what he did see. St. Leger, her other companion, had a certain delight in seeing Dolly's enjoyment; for himself, alas! it was too plain that art said little to him, and antiquity nothing.
One afternoon, when they had been perhaps a week in Rome, Dolly declared her intention of taking Rupert to the Museo Capitolino.
"You were there the day before yesterday," St. Leger remarked, rousing himself from a comfortable position and a magazine.
"Yes, thank you; and now I am going to do for Mr. Babbage what you did for me; introduce him to a scene of delights. You know, one should always pass on a good thing that one has received."
"Don't you want me?"
"No, indeed! I wouldn't bore you to that extent."
"But you will allow me, for my own pleasure," said Lawrence, getting up.
"No, I will not. You have done your part, as far as that museum is concerned; and besides, I have heard that a lady must not dance too many dances with one gentleman. It is Mr. Babbage's turn."
And with a merry little nod of her head, and smile at the irresolute St. Leger, Dolly went off. Rupert was generally of the party when they went sight-seeing, but it had happened that it was not the case when the visit to the Capitoline Museum had been made.
"You are not going to this place for my sake?" Rupert said as Dolly hurried along.
"For your sake, and for my sake," she answered. "I was there for about two minutes, and I should like two days. O Rome, Rome! Ineversaw anything like Rome."
"Why?" said Rupert. "It hasn't got hold of me so."
"Wait, and it will. I seem to be touching the history of the world here, till I don't know whereabouts in the ages I am. Is this the nineteenth century?—Here we are."
Half an hour later, the two found themselves in the Hall of the Emperors.
"Do you know Roman history, Rupert?"
"A little. Not much. Not far down, you see. I know about Romulus and Remus."
"Then you know more than anybody else knows. That's a myth. Look here. Let us begin at the beginning. Do you know this personage?"
"Julius Caesar? Yes. I have read about him."
"Did you ever read Plutarch's Lives? They used to be my delight when I was a little girl. I was very fond of Julius Caesar then. I know better now. But I am glad to see him."
"Why, wasn't he a great man?"
"Very. So the world says. I have come to perceive, Rupert, that that don't mean much."
"Why not? I thought the world was apt to be right."
"In some things. No doubt this manmighthave been a very great man; he had power; but what good did he do to the world? He just worked for himself. I tell you what the Bible says, Rupert; 'The things which are highly esteemed among men, are abomination in the sight of God.' Look, and you will see it is so."
"If you go bythat—— Who is this next man? Augustus. He was the first Roman emperor, wasn't he?"
"And all around here are ranged his successors. What a set they were! and they look like it."
"How do you know they are likenesses?"
"Know from coins. Do you know, almost all these men, the emperors, died a violent death? Murdered, or else they killed themselves. That speaks, don't it, for the beauty and beneficence of their reigns, and the loveliness of their characters?"
"I don't know them very well. Some of them were good men, weren't they?"
"See here, Nos. 11 and 12. Here are Caligula and Claudius. Caligula was murdered. Then Claudius was poisoned by his wife Agrippina; there she is, No. 14. She was killed by her son Nero; and Nero killed himself; and No. 13, there is another wife of Claudius whom he killed before he married Agrippina; and here, No. 17, was a wife of Nero whom he killed by a kick. And that is the way, my dear Rupert, they went on. Don't you wish you had belonged to the Imperial family? There's greatness for you!"
"But there were some really great ones, weren't there? Which are they?"
"Well, let us see. Come on. Here is Trajan. He was not a brute; he was a philosopher and a sceptic. He was quite a distinguished man in the arts of war and peace. But he ordered that the profession of Christianity should be punished with death. He legalised all succeeding persecutions, by his calm enactments. Do you think he was a great man in the sight of God?"
"Were the Christians persecuted in his reign?"
"Certainly. In Asia Minor, under the good governor Pliny. Simon the son of Cleophas was crucified at that time."
"Perhaps Trajan did not know any better."
"He might have known better, though. Ignorance is no plea that will stand, when people have the means of knowledge. But come on. Here is Marcus Aurelius; here, Rupert, Nos. 37 and 38. He was what the world calls a very great man. He was cultivated, and wise, and strong, a great governor, and for a heathen a good man; and how he treated the Christians! East and west, and at Rome here itself, how they were sought out and tortured and killed! What do you think the Lord thinks of such a great man as that? Remember the Bible says of His people, 'He that toucheth you, toucheth the apple of His eye.' What do you think the Lord thought of Marcus Aurelius' greatness? Look here, Rupert—here is Decius, and here is Diocletian."
"Were they persecutors too?"
"Great. It is so strange to look at their faces here, in this museum, after so many centuries. I suppose they will stand here, maybe, till the end of the world. Come away—we have been so long in this gallery we have not left time enough for the other rooms."
They went to the Hall of the Gladiator; and there Dolly studied the figure which gives name to the place, with a kind of rapt intensity. She described to her companion the meaning of the marble; but it was not the same thing to them both. Dolly was lost in delighted contemplation. Rupert looked on with a kind of incredulous scorn.
"You don't care for it?" she said suddenly, catching a sight of his face.
"What's it good for?" said Rupert. "This ain't a likeness of anybody, is it?"
"It is a likeness of a great many people. Hundreds and hundreds died in such fashion as that, for the pleasure of the Roman people."
"Well, would it have been any satisfaction to you to see it?"
"Why, no! I hope not."
"Then why do you like to see it here now?"
"I don't! this is not reality, but an image."
"I can't see why you should like to look at the image, when you couldn't bear the reality."
"Why, Rupert"—— Dolly began, but her further words were cut off.
"Met again!" said a soft voice. "You here! we did not know you would be in Rome so soon."
"Dolly!" exclaimed Christina, who followed her mother. "That's delightful. Dolly Copley in Rome! and in the Museo Capitolino. Who is with you?"
"We are all here," said Dolly, smiling.
"Yes, yes, in Rome, of course; but you are not in the museum alone?"
Dolly presented Mr. Babbage.
"And how is your mother?" Mrs. Thayer went on. "Better! I am so glad. I thought she would be better in Italy. And what have you done with your handsomecavaliero servente—Mr. St. Leger?"
"I left him at home with a magazine, in which Ithinkthere was a story," said Dolly.
"Impossible! his gallantry allowed you to come alone?"
"Not his gallantry, but perhaps his sense of weakness," Dolly answered.
"Of weakness, my dear? Is he a weak young man? He does not look it."
"Very good muscular power, I daresay; but when we talk of power of will, you know 'weakness' is relative. I forbade him, and he did not dare to come."
"You forbade him! and he obeyed? But, Christina, I do not think you have Mr. Shubrick in such training as that. Would he obey, if you gave him orders?"
"Probably the relations are different," said Dolly, obliging herself to keep a grave face. "I am in a happy independence of Mr. St. Leger which allows me to command him."
"Independence!" said Mrs. Thayer, with an air half curious, half confounded, which was a severe trial to Dolly's risible muscles. "I know young ladies are very independent in these days—I don't know whether it is a change for the better or not—but I do not think Christina would boast of her independence ofherknight-errant."
"No," said Dolly. "The cases are different—as I said. Mr. St. Leger does not stand in that particular relation to me."
"Doesn't he? But, my dear, I hope you haven't quarrelled?"
"Not at all," said Dolly. "We do not like each other well enough to quarrel."
"But he struck me as a most delightful young man."
"I believe he generally makes that impression."
"I used to know his father," said Mrs. Thayer. "He was a sad flirt. I know, you see, my dear, because I was one myself. I am glad Christina does not take after me. But I used to think it was great fun. Is Mr. St. Leger anything of a flirt?"
"I have had no opportunity of knowing, ma'am," said Dolly gravely.
"Well, you will bring him to see us? You are all coming to make us a visit at our villa, at Sorrento; and Mr. Shubrick is coming; Christina wants to show him to you; you know a girl is always proud of her conquests; and then we will go everywhere and make you see everything. You have just no notion how delightful it is at Sorrento in the spring and summer. It's Paradise!"
"But you are coming first to spend Christmas with me, Dolly," said her friend, who until now had hardly been able to get in a word. "I have five thousand things to talk to you about. My sailor friend has promised to be here too, if he can, and his ship is in the Mediterranean somewhere, so I guess he can; and I want you to see him. Come and spend Christmas Eve with me—do! and then we shall have a chance to talk before he comes. Of course there would be no chance after," she added with a confident smile.
Dolly was not much in a mood for visiting, and scantly inclined to mix in the joyous circle which must be breathing so different an atmosphere from her own. She doubted besides whether she could leave her watch and ward for so long a time as a night and a day. Yet it was pleasant to see Christina, and the opportunity to talk over old times was tempting; and her friend's instances were very urgent. Dolly at last gave a conditional assent; and they parted; Dolly and Rupert taking the way home.
"Is that lady a friend of yours?" Rupert enquired.
"The daughter; not the mother."
"The old lady, I meant. She has a mind to know all about us."
"Why?"
"She asked me about five hundred and fifty questions, after she quitted you."
"What did you tell her?"
"I told her what she knew before," said Rupert, chuckling. "Her stock of knowledge hasn't grownverymuch, I guess, by all she got out of me. But she tried."
Dolly was silent. After a short pause, Rupert spoke again in quite another tone.
"Miss Dolly, you've put me in a sort of a puzzle. You said a little while ago, or you spoke as if you thought, that all those grand old Roman emperors were not after all great men. Then, iftheywere not great, what's a fellow to try for? If a common fellow does his best, he will not get to the hundredth or the thousandth part of what those men did. Yet you say they were not great. What's the use of my trying, for instance, to do anything, or be anything?"
"What did they do, Rupert?"
"Well, you seem to say, nothing! But don't you come to Rome to admire what they did?"
"Some of the things they did, or made. But stand still here, Rupert, and look. Do you see the Rome of the Caesars? You see an arch here and a theatre there; but the city of those days is buried. It is under our feet. The great works of art here, those that were done in their day, were not done by them. Do you think it is any good to one of those old emperors in the other world—take the best of them—is it any good to him now that he had some of these splendid buildings erected, or marbles carved? Or that his armies conquered the world, and his government held order wherever his arms went? If he is happy in the presence of God, is it anything to him, now, that we look back and admire his work?—and if he is unhappy, banished that Presence, is it anything to him then?"
"Well, whatisgreatness then?" said Rupert. "What is worth a man's trying for, if these greatest things are worth nothing?"
"I do not think anything is really great or worth while," said Dolly, "except those things that God likes."
"You come back to religion," said Rupert. "I did not mean religion. What are those things?"
"I do not think anything is worth trying for, Rupert, except the things that will last."
"What things will last?" said he half impatiently.
"Look here," said Dolly. "Step a little this way. Do you see the Colosseum over yonder? Who do you think will remember, and do remember, that with most pleasure; Vespasian and Titus who built it, or the Christians who gave themselves to the lions there for Christ's sake?"
"Yes," said Rupert, "of course; butthatisn't the thing. There are no lions here now."
"There are lions of another sort," said Dolly, standing still and with her eyes fixed upon the wonderful old pile in the distance. "There is always work to be done for God, Rupert, and dangers or difficulties to be faced; and to the people who faceanylions for His sake, there is a promise of praise and honour and blessing that will last for ever."
"Then you would make all a man's work to be work for God?" said Rupert, not satisfied with this view of the question. "What is to become of all the rest of the things that are to be done in the world?"
"There ought not to be anything else done in the world," said Dolly, laughing, as she turned and began to walk on again. "It ought all to be done for Him. Merchants ought to make money for His service; and lawyers ought to strive to bring God's order between man and man, and justice to every one, and that never wrong should be done or oppression exercised by anybody. 'Break every yoke, and let the oppressed go free.' And soldiers ought to fight for no other reason but to protect weaker people from violence and wrong. And so on of everything else. And, Rupert, God has promised a city, of His own preparing, for His people; it will be a place of delights; and I am thinking of that word,—'Blessed are they that do His commandments; that they may have a right to the tree of life, and may enter in through the gates into the city.' I don't believe anybody that is left outside will think much of what we call greatness in that day."
"Why, the world wouldn't be the world, at that rate," cried Rupert.
"Think it wouldn't be altered for the better?"
"But a few people can't make it like that."
"Suppose they make only a very little piece of it like that?—But then comes the end, Rupert, and the King's 'Well done!'"
"Then you wouldn't have a man make as much as he can of himself," said Rupert after a dissatisfied pause.
"Certainly I would."
"What use?"
"Oh, to be a better servant to his Master, the best he possibly can; and to do more work for Him; the most he can do."
"It seems to me, Miss Dolly, if you are right, pretty much all the rest of the world are wrong."
"Yes, Rupert; don't you remember the Bible says that the wrong way is the broad way, where almost all the people go?"
Rupert's meditations this time held him till they got home.
The days that intervened before Christmas were filled full with delightful business. Dolly had her anxieties, it is true; but she was in Rome. What could stand against the witchery of the enchantress city? Anxieties fell into the background; and with all the healthy, elastic spring of her young years Dolly gave herself to the Present and the Past, and rejoiced, hour by hour and step by step, in what the Present and the Past opened up to her. True, her father and mother hardly shared in her pleasure; Mr. Copley's taste was blunted, I fear, for all noble enjoyment; and Mrs. Copley cared mainly to be comfortable in her home quarters, and to go out now and then where the motley world of fashion and of sight-seeing did most congregate. Especially she liked to go to the Pincian Hill Sunday afternoon, and watch the indescribable concourse of people of all nationalities which is there to be seen at that time. But there Dolly would not go.
"It is very absurd of you, Dolly!" cried her mother, greatly disappointed; for she had a pride in seeing the universal attention which was drawn to Dolly in every public place. "What harm should there be in looking at the beautiful view and hearing music? we are not going todoanything."
"It's the Lord's day, mother," said Dolly, looking up at her sorrowfully.
"You went to church this morning all right," her mother said. "There is no church for you to go to at this time of day, that I know of; and if there were, I should think it very ridiculous to go again. If you want to think, you could think about good things, I should hope, on the Pincian. What is there to hinder you?"
"Only everything I should see and hear, mother."
"Hinder you from thinking about good things!"
"Hinder me from thinking about anything," said Dolly, laughing a little.
"Seriously, Miss Dolly," said Lawrence, who stood by, hat in hand, ready to go; the Pincian Hill Sunday evening was something he quite approved of;—"seriously, do you think there is anythingwrongin sitting up there for an hour or two, and seeing the beautiful sunset colours, and hearing the music?"
"She's a little Puritan," said her father; "and the Puritans were always an obstinate set, Lawrence; always, and in every nation and people. I wonder why the two things should go together."
"What two things, father?"
"What you call Puritanism and obstinacy."
"I suppose because those you call Puritans love the truth," said Dolly; "and so hold to it."
"And do you not think other people, who are not Puritans, also love the truth, Miss Dolly?" Lawrence asked.
"I don't think anybody loves the truth he disobeys," Dolly said with a gentle shake of her head.
"There!" said her mother. "There's Dolly all over. She is right, and nobody else is right. I wonder what she supposes is to become of all the rest of the world! Everybody in Rome will be on the Pincian to-night except Dolly Copley. And every other mother but me will have her daughter with her."
In answer to which Dolly kissed her, pulled the strings of her bonnet into a prettier bow, and looked at her with sweet, shining eyes, which said as plainly as possible without words that Mrs. Copley knew better. The party went off, nevertheless; and Lawrence, lingering till the others had turned their backs, held out his hand to Dolly.
"Will you tell me," said he, "as a favour, what you think is the harm of what we are doing?"
"You are just robbing the King of heaven and earth," Dolly answered gravely.
"Robbing! Of what?"
"Of time which He says is His, and of honour which He says ought to be His."
"How?"
"'The seventh day is the Sabbath of the Lord thy God.'"
"This is not the seventh; it is the first."
"Quibbling, Mr. St. Leger. It is not the seventh from Monday, but itisthe seventh from Sunday; it is the one day set apart from the seven."
"And what ought we to do with it? Sabbath meansrest, does it not? What are we going to do but rest up there on the Pincian? only rest most delightfully. You will not rest so here."
"I suppose your bodies will rest," said Dolly. "Your minds will have most uncommon powers of abstraction if they do."
"But you are putting yourself out of the world, Dolly."
"I mean it," said she with a little nod at him. "The Lord's people are not of the world, Mr. St. Leger; and the world does not like their ways. Never did."
"I wonder if all Puritans are as quaint as you," said he, kissing the hand he held. But then he went off to the Pincian.
And there, surely, was a most wonderful, rich, and varied scene; a concourse of people of all characters and nationalities—except the small party in the world which Dolly represented; a kaleidoscope view of figures and costumes, classes and callings, most picturesque, most diversified, most changeful. There were the Thayers, amongst others; and as they joined company with the Copley party, of course Mrs. Copley's pleasure was greatly increased; for in a crowd it is always pleasant to know somebody. Mr. Copley knew several people. Mrs. Thayer had leisure to tell and ask whatever she had a mind with Mrs. Copley, and to improve her acquaintance with Mr. St. Leger; who on his part managed to get some conversation with the beautiful Christina. It was a distinction to be talking to such a beauty, and he felt it so; and Christina on her part was not insensible to the fact that the young man was himself very handsome, and unexceptionably well dressed, and the heir to many thousands; therefore a person of importance. The time on the Pincian Hill that evening was very pleasantly spent; and so Mrs. Copley told her daughter on their return.
"Mrs. Thayer said she was very sorry not to see you," Mrs. Copley added.
"I am much obliged to her."
"You are not obliged to her at all, for she didn't mean it. That's what you get by staying behind."
"What?" said Dolly, dimpling up.
"That woman had it all her own way; talked to Mr. St. Leger, and let him talk to her daughter. You see, Dolly, Christina is very handsome when you are not by."
"Mother, she is at any time. She's beautiful. You must not set me up in comparison with her."
"Well, she's engaged," said Mrs. Copley. "I wish you were. You let everything hang by the eyelids, Dolly; and some fine morning what you look for won't be there."