The days that followed were full of pleasure; and Dolly kept to her resolution, not to spoil the present by care about the future. Indeed, the balmy air and the genial light and all the wealth that nature has bestowed upon southern Italy, were a help to such a resolution. The infinite lavish fulness of the present quite laughed at the idea of barrenness or want anywhere in time to come. Dolly knew that was nature's subtle flattery, not to be trusted, and yet she willingly admitted the flattery. Nothing should spoil these days.
One evening she and Christina were sitting again on the bank, wondering at the marvellous sunset panorama.
"How difficult it is, looking at this," said Dolly, "to believe that there is want and misery in the world."
"Why should you believe it?" said Christina. "I don't think there is, except where people have brought it upon themselves."
"People bring it upon other people. But to look at this, one would say it was impossible. And this is how the world was meant to be, I suppose."
"What do you mean? how?" said Christina. "It is rich to hear you talk."
"Oh, look at it, Christina! Look at the colours and the lights and the sparkle everywhere, the perfect wealth of loveliness in form as well as colour; and if you think a minute you will know that He who made it all meant people to be happy, and meant them to be as full of happiness as the earth is full of beauty."
"I don't see 'lights' and 'colours' so much as you do, Dolly; I am not an artist; but if God meant them to be happy, why aren't they happy?"
"Sin," said Dolly.
"What's the use of thinking about it? You and I cannot help it."
"Christina, that is not true. We can help some of it."
"By giving money, you mean? Well, we do, whenever we see occasion; but there is no end of the cheatery."
"Giving money will not take away the world's misery, Christina."
"What will, then? It will do a good deal."
"It will do a good deal, but it does not touch the root of the trouble."
"What does, Dolly?—you dreamer."
"The knowledge of Christ."
"Well, it is the business of clergymen and missionaries to give them that."
"Prove it."
"Why, that's what they are for."
"Do you think there are enough of them to preach the good news to every creature?"
"Well, then, there ought to be more."
"And in the meantime?—Tell me, Christina, to whom was that command given, to preach the gospel to every creature?"
"To the apostles, of course!"
"Twelve men? Or eleven men, rather. They could not. No, it was given to all the disciples; and so, Christina, it was given to you, and to me."
"To preach the gospel!" said Christina.
"That is, just to tell the good news."
"And to whom do you propose we should tell it?"
"The command says, everybody."
"How can you and I do that, Dolly?"
"That is just what I am studying, Christina. I do not quite know. But when I look out on all this wonderful beauty, and see what it means, and think how miserable the world is,—just the very opposite,—I feel that I must do it, somehow or other."
Christina lifted her arms above her head and clapped her hands together. "Mad, mad!" she exclaimed—"you are just gone mad, Dolly. Oh, I wish you'd get married, and forget all your whimsies. The right sort of man would make you forget them. Haven't you found the right sort of man yet?"
"The right sort of man would help me carry them out."
"It must be my Sandie, then; there isn't another match for you in extravagant ideas in all this world. What does Mr. St. Leger think of them?"
"I never asked him. I suppose he would take very much your view."
"And you don't care what view he takes?" said Christina, looking sharply at her.
"Not in the least. Except for his own sake."
The one drawback upon the perfect felicity of this visit was, that the said Sandie did not appear. They could not wait for him; they went on the most charming of excursions, by sea and land, wishing for him; in which wish Dolly heartily shared. It had been one of the pleasures she had promised herself in coming to the Thayers' that she should see Mr. Shubrick again. He had interested her singularly, and even taken not a little hold of her fancy. So she was honestly disappointed when at last a note came from him, saying that he found it impossible to join the party.
"That means just that he has something on hand that he calls 'duty'—which anybody else would put off or hand over," said Christina, pouting.
"Duty is a very good reason," said Dolly. "Don't you see, you are sure of Mr. Shubrick, that in any case he will not do what he thinks wrong? I think you ought to be a very happy woman, Christina."
But the excursions were made without Mr. Shubrick's social or material help. They went to Capri; they visited the grottoes; nay, they made a party to go up Vesuvius. All that was to be seen, they saw; and, as Christina declared, they left nothing undone that they could do. Then came the breaking up.
"Are you expecting to go back to that stuffy little place at Sorrento?" Mr. Copley asked. It was the evening before their departure, and all the party were sitting, scattered about upon the verandah.
"Father!" cried Dolly. "It is the airiest, floweriest, sunniest, brightest, most delightful altogether house, that ever took lodgers in!"
"It certainly wasn't stuffy, Mr. Copley," said his wife.
"Dolly likes it because you couldn't get a glass of good wine in the house. Whatever the rest of humanity like, she makes war upon. I conclude you are reckoning upon going back there, my wife and daughter?"
"Are not you, Mr. Copley?" his wife asked.
"I must be excused."
"Then where are you going?"
"Home."
"Home!" exclaimed Mrs. Copley. "Do you meanhome?Boston?"
"A Boston woman thinks Boston is the centre of the universe, you may notice," said Mr. Copley, turning to Mr. Thayer. "It's a curious peculiarity. No matter what other cities on the face of the earth you show her, her soul turns back to Boston."
"Don't say anything against Boston," said Mrs. Thayer; "it's a good little place. I know, when Mr. Thayer first carried me there, it took me a while to get accustomed to it;—things on a different scale, you know, and looked at from a different point of view; but I soon found admirers, and then friends. Oh, I assure you, Boston and I were very fond of each other in those days; and though I lost my claims to admiration a long time ago, I have kept my friends."
"I have no doubt the admirers are still there too," said Mr. Copley. "Does Mrs. Thayer mean to say she has no admirers? I profess myself one!"
"Christina takes the admiration now-a-days. I am contented with that."
"And so you conquer by proxy."
"Mr. Copley," here put in his wife, "if you do not mean America by 'home,' what do you mean? and where are you going?"
"Where my home has been for a number of years. England—London."
"But you have given up your office?"
"I am half sorry, that is a fact."
"Then what should you do in London?"
"My dear, of the many hundred thousands who call London their home, very few have an office."
"But they have business of some kind?"
"That is a Boston notion. Did you ever observe, Thayer, that a Massachusetts man has no idea of life without business? It is the reason why he is in the world, to him; it never occurs to him thatplaymight be occasionally useful. I declare! I believe they don't know the meaning of the word in America; it has dropped out, like a forgotten art."
"But, father," Dolly spoke up now, "if you are going to London, mother and I cannot possibly go to Sorrento."
"I don't quite see the logic of that."
"Why, we cannot be here in Italy quite alone."
"I'll leave you St. Leger to take care of you and bring you back; as he took you away."
"I should be very happy to fall in with that plan," said Lawrence slowly; "but I fear I cannot make it out. I have been making arrangements to go into Greece, seeing that I am so near it. And I may quite possibly spend another winter in Rome."
There was a pause, and when Mr. Copley spoke again there was another sound in his voice. It was not his will to betray it, but Dolly heard the chagrin and disappointment.
"Well," said he, "such independent travellers as you two ladies can do pretty comfortably alone in that paragon of lodging-houses."
"But not make the journey home alone, father."
"When are you coming?"
"When you do, of course," said his wife.
Dolly knew it must be so and not otherwise. She sat still and down-hearted, looking abroad over the bay of Naples, over all the shores of which the moonlight was quivering or lying in still floods of calm beauty. From this, ay, and from everything that was like this, in either its fairness or its tranquillity, she must go. There had been a little lull in her cares since they came to Sorrento; the lull was over. Back to London!—And that meant, back to everything from which she had hoped to escape. How fondly she had hoped, once her father was away from the scene of his habits and temptations, he could be saved to himself and his family; and perhaps even lured back to America where he would be comparatively safe. Now where was that hope, or any other? Suddenly Dolly changed her place and sat down close beside Mr. Copley.
"Father, I wish you would take us back to our real old home—back to Roxbury!"
"Can't do it, my pet."
"But, father, why not? What should keep you in England?"
"Business."
"Now that you are out of the office?"
"Yes. Do you think all business is confined to the consuls' offices? A few other people have something to do."
Dolly heard no tone of hope-giving in her father's words. She ceased and sat silent, leaning upon his knee as she was and looking off into the moonlight. Mrs. Thayer and Mr. St. Leger were carrying on a lively discourse about people and things unknown to her; Mr. Thayer was smoking; Mrs. Copley was silent and sorry and cast-down, like herself, she knew. Dolly's eye went roving through the moonlight as if it were never going to see moonlight again; and her heart was taking up the old question, and feeling it too heavy to carry, how should she save her father from his temptation? Under the pressure Dolly's heart felt very low; until again those words came and lifted her up,—"Who shall separate us from the love of Christ?" After that the sweet moonbeams seemed to be full of those words. I amnotalone, thought Dolly, I amnotforgotten; and He does not mean that I should be crushed, or hurt, by this arrangement of things, which I strove so to hinder. I will not be one of the "little faith" people. I will just trust the Lord—my Lord. What I cannot do, He can; and His ways are wonderful and past finding out.
So she was quieted. And yet as she sat there it came over Dolly's mind, as things will, quite unbidden; it came over her to think how life would go on here, in Italy, with Christina, after she was gone. When the lovely Italian chapter of her own life was closed up and ended, when she would be far away out of sight of Vesuvius, in the fogs of London, the sun of Naples would still be shining on the Thayers' villa. They would go sailing on blue water, or floating over the gold and purple reflections which sometimes seemed to fill both water and air; they would see the white shafts of Paestum, yes, it would be soon cool enough for that; or if they must wait for Paestum, there were enough old monasteries and ruined castles and beauties of the like sort to keep them busy for many a day. Beauties which Dolly and Mr. Thayer loved. Nobody else in the house loved them. Christina had hardly an eye for them; and St. Leger, if he looked, did not care for what he saw. Nevertheless, they three would go picnicking through the wonderful old land, where every step was on monumental splendour or historical ashes, and the sights would be before them; whether they had eyes to see or no. For Dolly it was all done. She was glad she had had so much and enjoyed so much; and that enjoyment had given memory such a treasure of things to keep, that were hers for all time, and could be looked at in memory's chambers whenever she pleased. Yet she could not see the moonlight on the bay of Naples this evening for the last time, and remember towards what she was turning her face, without some tears coming that nobody saw—tears that were salt and hot.
The journey home was a contrast to the way by which they had come. It pleased Mr. Copley to go by sea from Naples to Marseilles, and from thence through France as fast as the ground could be passed over, till they reached Dover. And although those were not the days of lightning travel, yet travelling continually, the effect was of one swift, confused rush between Naples and London. Instead of the leisurely, winding course pursued to Dresden, and from Dresden to Venice, deviating at will from the shortest or the most obvious route, stopping at will at any point where the fancy took them, dawdling, speculating, enjoying, getting good out of every step of the way,—this journey was a sort of flash from the one end of it to the other, with nothing seen or remembered between but the one item of fatigue. So it came about, that when they found themselves in a London lodging-house, and Mrs. Copley and Dolly sat down and looked at each other, they had the feeling of having left Sorrento last evening, and of being dazed with the sudden transition from Sorrento and sunshine to London and smoke.
"Well!" said Mr. Copley, rubbing his hands, "here we are!"
"I don't feel as if I was anywhere," said his wife. "My head's in a whirl. Is this the way you like to travel, Frank?"
"The purpose of travelling, my dear," said Mr. Copley, still rubbing his hands—it must have been with satisfaction, for it could not have been with cold—"the purpose of travel is—to get over the ground."
"It wasn't my purpose when I went away."
"No—but when you came back."
"It wasn't my purpose anyway," said Mrs. Copley. "I should never stir from my place if I had to move the way you have kept me moving. My head is in a whirl."
"I'll take hold and turn it round the other way."
"I think it is quite likely you will! I should like to know what you mean to do with us, now you have got us here."
"Keep you here."
"What are you going to do with yourself, Mr. Copley?"
"There are always so many uses that I can make of myself, more than I have time for, that I cannot tell which I shall take hold of first."
With which utterance he quitted the room, almost before it was fairly out of his mouth. The two left behind sat and looked at the room, and then at each other.
"What are we going to do now, Dolly?" Mrs. Copley asked in evidently dismayed uncertainty.
"I don't know, mother."
"How long do you suppose your father will be contented to stay in this house?"
"I have no means of guessing, mother. I don't know why we are here at all."
"We had to go somewhere, I suppose, when we came to London—just for the first; but I can't stayhere, Dolly!"
"Of course not, mother."
"Then where are we going to? It is all very well to say 'of course not;' but where can we go, Dolly?"
"I have been thinking about it, mother, dear, but I have not found out yet. If we knew how long father wanted to stay in London"——
"It is no use asking that. I can tell you beforehand. He don't know himself. But it is my belief he'll find something or other to make him want to stay here the rest of his life."
"O mother, I hope not!"
"It is no use speaking to him about it, Dolly. Even if he knew, he would not own it, but that's my belief; and I can't bear London, Dolly. A very few days of this noise and darkness would just put me back where I was before we went away. I know it would."
"This is a darker day than common; they are not all so."
"They are all like gloom itself, compared to where we have been. I tell you, Dolly, I cannot stand it. After Sorrento, I cannot bear this."
"It's my belief, mother, you want home and Roxbury air. Why don't you represent that to father, forcibly?"
"Dolly, I never put myself in the way of your father's pleasure. He must take his pleasure; and he likes London. How he can, I don't see; but he does, and so do a great many other people; it may be a want of taste in me; I daresay it is; but I shall not put myself in the way of his pleasure. I'll stand it as long as I can, and when I cannot stand it any longer, I'll die. It will come to an end some time."
"Mother, don't talk so! We'll coax father to finish up his business and go home to Roxbury. I am quite setting my heart on it. Only you have patience a little, and don't lose courage. I'll talk to father as soon as I get a chance."
"What a dirty place this is!" was Mrs. Copley's next remark.
"Yes. It is not like the rocks and the sea. A great city must be more or less so, I suppose."
"I believe great cities are a mistake. I believe they were not meant to be built. They don't agree with me, anyway. Well, I'll lie down on that old sofa there—it's hard enough to have been one of Job's troubles—and see if I can get to sleep."
Dolly drew a soft shawl over her, and sat down to keep watch alone. The familiar London sounds were not cheering to the ears which had been so lately listening to the lap of the waves and the rustling of the myrtle branches. And the dingy though comfortable London lodging-house was a poor exchange for the bay of Sorrento and the bright rooms full of the scents of orange flowers and roses and carnations. Dolly gave way a little and felt very down-hearted. Not merely for this change of her outside world, indeed; Dolly was not so weak; only in this case the outward symbolised the inward, and gave fitting form and imagery for it. The grime and confusion of London streets, to Dolly's fancy, were like the evil ways which she saw close upon her; and as roses and myrtles, so looked a fair family life of love and right-doing. Why not?—when He, who is Love itself and Righteousness immaculate, declares of Himself,—"I am the rose of Sharon, and the lily of the valleys." I do not think those words occurred to Dolly that night, but other Bible words did, after a while. Promises of the life that shall be over all the earth one day, when the wilderness and the desert places shall be no longer desolate or barren, but shall "rejoice and blossom as the rose;" when to the Lord's people, "the sun shall no longer be their light by day, neither for brightness shall the moon give light" to them; when "sorrow and sighing shall flee away," and "the days of their mourning shall be ended." The words were like a lovely chime of bells,—or like the breath from a whole garden of roses and orange flowers,—or like the sunset light on the bay of Naples; or anything else most majestic, sweet, and fair. What if there were shadowed places to go through first?—And a region of shadow Dolly surely knew she had entered now. She longed for her father to come home; she wanted to consult with him about their arrangements, and so arrive at some certainty respecting what she had to do and expect. But Dolly knew that an early coming home was scarce to be hoped for; and she providently roused her mother at ten o'clock, and persuaded her to go to bed. Then Dolly waited alone in truth, with not even her sleeping mother's company; very sad at heart, and clutching, as a lame man does his stick, at some of the words of comfort she knew. "Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for Thou art with me." The case was not quite so bad, nor so good, with her as that; but the words were a strong staff to lean upon, nevertheless. And those others: "Because he hath set his love upon Me, therefore will I deliver him; I will set him on high, because he hath known My name. He shall call upon Me, and I will answer him; I will be with him in trouble;"... And, "There shall no evil happen to the just." Dolly stayed her heart on such words, while she waited for her father's coming. As it grew later and yet later she doubted whether she ought to wait. She was waiting however when he came, between twelve and one, but nearer the latter. She listened to his step on the stair, and knew all was not right; and when he opened the door, she saw. Her father had surely been taking wine or something; his face was flushed, his eyes were excited, and his manner was wandering.
"Dolly!—What are you here for?"
"I waited for you, father. I wanted to have a talk with you. But it's too late now," Dolly said, trembling.
"Too late—yes, of course. Go to bed. That's the thing for you. London is a great place, Dolly!"
Alas! His expression of satisfaction was echoed in her heart by an anathema. It was no time then to say anything. Dolly went to bed and cried herself to sleep, longing for that sunshiny time of which it is promised to the Lord's people—"Thy sun shall no more go down by day;" and thankful beyond all power of words to express, even then in her sorrow, that another sun had even already risen upon her, in the warm light of which no utter darkness was possible.
It was a day or two before, with her best watching, she could catch an opportunity to speak to her father. The second morning Mrs. Copley had headache and staid in bed, and Dolly and Mr. Copley were at breakfast alone.
"How long, father, do you think you may find affairs to keep you in England?" Dolly began with her father's first cup of coffee.
"As long as I like, my dear. There is no limit. In England there are always things going on to keep a man alive, and to keep him busy."
"Isn't that true in America equally?"
"I don't think so. I never found it so. Oh, there is enough to do there; but you don't find the same facilities, nor the same men to work with; and you don't know what to do with your money there when you have got it. England is the place! for a man who wants to live and to enjoy life."
"It isn't for a woman," said Dolly. "At least, not for one woman. Father, don't you know mother is longing to go home, to Roxbury?"
"Dolly, she is longing for something or other impossible, every day of her life."
"But it would do her a great deal of good to be back there."
"It would do me a great deal of harm."
There was a pause here during which Dolly meditated, and Mr. Copley buttered pieces of toast and swallowed them with ominous despatch. Dolly saw he would be soon through his breakfast at that rate.
"But, father," she began again, "are we to spend all the rest of our lives in England?"
"My dear, I don't know anything about the future. I never look ahead. The day is as much as I can see through. I advise you to follow my example."
"What are mother and I to do, then? We cannot stay permanently here, in this house."
"What's the matter with it?"
"Nothing, as a lodging-house; but mother would not thrive or be happy in a London lodging-house."
"People's happiness is in their own power. It does not depend upon place. All the clergymen will tell you so. You must talk to your mother, Dolly."
"Father, I talked toyouat Sorrento; but I remember you thought you could not live there."
"That was Sorrento; but London!—London is the greatest city in the world. Every taste may be suited in London."
"You know the air does not agree with mother. She will not be well if we keep her here," said Dolly anxiously; for she saw the last piece of toast on its way.
"Nonsense! That is fancy."
"If it is fancy, it is just as good as reality. She was pining when we were here before, until we went down to Brierley; and she will lose all she has gained in her travelling if we keep her here now."
"Well—I'll see what I can do," said Mr. Copley, rising from the table. "When is St. Leger coming back?"
"How should I know? I know nothing at all of his purposes but what he told us."
"Have you thrown him over?"
"I never took him up."
"Then you are more of a goose than I thought you. He'll be caught by that fair friend of yours, before he gets out of Italy. Good morning!"
Mr. Copley hurried away; and Dolly was left to her doubts. What could so interest and hold him in a place where he had no official business, where his home was not, and he had no natural associations? Was it the attraction of mere pleasure, or was it pleasure under that mischievous, false face of gain, which men delight in and call speculation. And from speculation proper, carried on among the business haunts of men, there is not such a very wide step in the nature of things to the green level of the gaming-table. True, many men indulge in the one variety who have a horror of the other; but Dolly's father, she knew, had a horror of neither. Stocks, or dice, what did it matter? and in both varieties the men who played with him, she knew too, would help their play with wine. Against these combined powers, what was she? And what was to become of them all?
Part of the question was answered at dinner that evening. Mr. Copley announced that Brierley Cottage was unoccupied and that he had retaken it for them.
"Brierley!" cried Mrs. Copley. "Brierley! Are we going backthereagain! Frank, do you mean that we are to spend all our lives apart in future?"
"Not at all, my dear! If you will be so good as to stay with me, I shall be very happy."
"In London! But you know very well I cannot live in London."
"Then you can go down to Brierley."
"And how often shall you come there?"
"When the chinks of business are wide enough to let me slip through."
"Business! All you live for is business. Mr. Copley, what do you expect is to become of Dolly, shut up in a cottage down in the country?"
"How is she to get married, you mean?Sheexpects a fairy prince to come along one of these days; and of course he could find her at Brierley as easily as anywhere. It makes no difference in a fairy tale. In fact, the unlikely places are just the ones where the princes turn up."
"You will not be serious!" sighed Mrs. Copley.
"Serious? I am nothing but serious. The regular suitor, proposed by the parents, has offered himself and been rejected; and now there is nothing to do but to wait for the fairy prince."
Poor Mrs. Copley gave it up. Her husband's words were always too quick for her.
Brierley was afterwards discussed between her and Dolly. The proposal was welcome to neither of them. Yet London would not do for Mrs. Copley; she grew impatient of it more and more. And so, within a week after their arrival, they left it and went down again to their old home in the country. It felt like going to prison, Mrs. Copley said. Though the country was still full of summer's wealth and beauty; and it was impossible not to feel the momentary delight of the change from London. The little garden was crowded with flowers, the fields all around rich in grass and grain; the great trees of the park standing in their unchanged regal beauty; the air sweet as air could be, without orange blossoms. And yet it seemed to the two ladies, when Mr. Copley left them again after taking them down to the cottage, that they were shut off and shut up in a respectable and very eligible prison, from whence escape was doubtful.
To do Mr. Copley justice, he left the prison very well provided and furnished. The store closet and pantry were stocked; the house put in tolerable order, and two maids were taken down. The old gardener had disappeared, but Dolly declared she would keep the flowers in order herself. So for a number of weeks things really went not ill with them at Brierley. Dolly did keep the flowers in order, and she did a great many other things; the chief of which, however, was attending to her mother. How exquisitely she did this it would take a great deal of detail to tell. It was shown, or felt rather, for a great part, in very small particulars. Not only in taking care of her mother's wardrobe and toilette, like the most skilled of waiting-maids; not only in ordering and providing her meals like the most dainty of housekeepers; not only in tireless reading aloud of papers and books, whatever could be got to interest Mrs. Copley; these were part, but besides these there were a thousand little touches a day given to Mrs. Copley's comfort, that even herself hardly took any note of. Dolly's countenance never was seen to fall in her mother's presence, nor her spirits perceived to flag. She was like the flowers with which she filled the house and dressed the table; sweet and fresh and cheery and lovely. And so ministering, and so ministered to, I cannot say that the life of the mother and daughter was other than a happy one. If Mrs. Copley was sensible of a grievous want here and there, which made her nervous and irritable whenever she thought of it, the tenderness of Dolly's soothing and the contagion of Dolly's peace were irresistible; and if Dolly had a gnawing subject of care, which hurt and pricked and stung her perpetually, a cloud of fear darkening over her, from the shadow of which she could not get free; yet the loving care to ward off both the pain and the fear from her mother, helped at least to keep her own heart fresh and strong to bear whatever was coming.
So in their little room, at their table, or about the flowers in the garden, or sitting in the honeysuckle porch reading, the mother and daughter were always together, and the days of late summer and then of autumn went by sweetly enough. And when the last roses were gone and the honeysuckle vines had ceased to send forth their breath of fragrance, and leaves turned sear, and the winds blew harsh from the sea, Dolly and Mrs. Copley made themselves all the snugger in the cottage; and knitting and reading was carried on in the glow of a good fire that filled all their little room with brightness. They were ready for winter; and winter when it came did not chill them; the household life was warm and busy. All this while they had the stir of frequent visits from Mr. Copley, and between whiles the expectation of them. They were never long; he came and went, Mrs. Copley said, like a gust of wind, with a rush and a whistle and a roar, and then was gone, leaving you to feel how still it was. However, these gusts of wind brought a great deal of refreshment. Mr. Copley always came with his hands full of papers; always had the last London or Edinburgh Quarterly, and generally some other book or books for his wife and daughter to delight themselves withal. And though Dolly was not always satisfied with her father's appearance, yet on the whole he gave her no new or increased occasion for anxiety.
So the autumn and winter went not ill away. The cottage had no visitors. It was at some distance from the village, and in the village there was hardly anybody that would have held himself entitled to visit there. The doctor was an old bachelor. The rector took no account of the two stranger ladies whom now and then his eye roved over in service time. Truly they were not often to be seen in his church, for the distance was too far for Mrs. Copley to walk, unless in exceptionally good days; when the weather and the footing and her own state of body and mind were in rare harmony over the undertaking. There was nobody else to take notice of them, and nobody did take notice of them; and in process of time it came to pass, not unnaturally, that Mrs. Copley began to get tired of living alone. For though it is extremely pleasant to be quiet, yet it remains true that man was made a social animal; and if he is in a healthy condition he craves contact with his fellows. As the winter wore away, some impression of this sort seemed to force itself upon Mrs. Copley.
"I wonder what your father is dreaming of!" she said one day, when she had sat for some time looking at Dolly, who was drawing. "He seems to think it quite natural that you should live down here at this cottage, year in and year out, like a toad in a hole; with no more life or society. We might as well be shut up in a nunnery, only then there would be more of us. I never heard of a nunnery with only two nuns."
"Are you getting tired of it, mother?"
"Tired!—that isn't the word. I think I am growing stupid, and gradually losing my wits."
"We have not been a bit stupid this winter, mother, dear."
"We haven't seen anybody."
"The family are soon coming to Brierley House, Mrs. Jersey says. I daresay you will see somebody then."
"I don't believe we shall. The English don't like strangers, I tell you, Dolly, unless they come recommended by something or other;—and there is nothing to recommend us."
Mrs. Copley uttered this last sentence with such a dismal sort of realisation, that Dolly laughed out.
"You are too modest, mother. I do not believe things are as bad as that."
"You will see," said her mother. "And I hope you will stop going to see the housekeeper then."
"I do not know why I should," said Dolly quietly.
However, this question began to occupy her; not the question of her visiting Mrs. Jersey or of any one else visiting them; but this prolonged living alone to which her mother and she seemed to be condemned. It was not good, and it was not right; and Dolly saw that it was beginning to work unfavourably upon Mrs. Copley's health and spirits. But London? and a lodging-house? That would be worse yet; and for a house to themselves in London Dolly did not believe the means were at hand.
Lately, things had been less promising. Mr. Copley seemed to be not so ready with his money; and he did not look well. Yes, he was well, he said when she asked him; nevertheless, her anxious eye read the old signs. She had not noticed them during the winter, or but slightly and rarely. Whether Mr. Copley had been making a vigorous effort to be as good as his word and spare Dolly pain; whether his sense of character had asserted itself, whether he had been so successful in speculation or play that he did not need opiates and could do without irritants; I do not know. There had been an interval. Now, Dolly began to be conscious again of the loss of freshness, the undue flush, the weak eyes, the unsteady mouth, the uneven gait. A stranger as yet might have passed it all by without notice; Dolly knew the change from her father's former quick, confident movements, iron nerves and muscular activity. And what was almost worse than all to her, among indications of his being entered on a downward course, she noticed that now he avoided her eye; looked at her, but preferred not meeting her look. I cannot tell how dreadful this was to Dolly. She had been always accustomed, until lately, to respect her father and to see him respected; to look at him as holding his place among men with much more than the average of influence and power; he was apt to do what he wished to do, and also to make other men do it. He was recognised as a leader in all parties and plans in which he took any share; Mr. Copley's word was quoted and Mr. Copley's lead was followed; and as is the case with all such men, his confidence in himself had been one of his sources of power and means of success. Dolly had been all her life accustomed to this as the natural and normal condition of things. Now she saw that her father had ceased to respect himself. The agony this revelation brought to Mr. Copley's loyal little daughter, it is impossible to tell. She felt it almost unbearable, shrank from it, would have closed her eyes to it; but Dolly was one of those whose vision is not clouded but rather made more keen by affection; and she failed to see nothing that was before her.
The ministry Dolly applied to this new old trouble was of the most exquisite kind. Without making it obtrusive, she bestowed upon her father a sort of service the like of which not all the interest of courts can obtain for their kings. She was tender of him, with a tenderness that came like the touch of a soft summer wind; coming and going, and coming again. It calls for no answer or return; only it is there with its blessing, comforting tired nerves and soothing ruffled spirits. Mr. Copley hardly knew what Dolly was doing; hardly knew that it was Dolly; when now it was a gentle touch on his arm, leading him to the tea-table, and now a specially prepared cup, and Dolly bringing it, and standing before him smiling and tasting it, looking at him over it. And Mr. Copley certainly thought at such times that a prettier vision was not to be seen in the whole United Kingdom. Another time she would perch herself upon his knee and stroke back his hair from his temples, with fingers so delicate it was like the touch of a fairy; and then sometimes she would lay her head caressingly down on his shoulder; and though at such times Dolly could willingly have broken her heart in weeping, she let Mr. Copley see nothing but smiles, and suffered scarce so much as a stray sigh to come to his ear.
"Have you seen anything of the great people?" he asked one evening, when Dolly had moved his sudden admiration.
"Do you mean the people at the House?" his wife said. "No, of course. Don't you know, Mr. Copley, you must be great yourself to have the great look at you."
"Humph! There are different ways of being great. I shouldn't wonder, now, if you could show Lady Brierley as much as Lady Brierley could show you—in some ways."
"What extravagant notions you do have, Frank," said his wife. "You are so much of an American, you forget everybody around you is English."
"Lady Brierley has been only a little while come home," said Dolly. "We need not discuss her yet."
And so speaking, Dolly brought out the Bible. The reading with her mother had become a regular thing now, greatly helpful to Mrs. Copley's good rest, Dolly believed, both by day and night; and latterly when he had been at the cottage her father had not run away when she brought her book. Alone with her mother, Dolly had long since added prayer to the reading; not yet in her father's presence. Her heart beat a little, it cost an effort; all the same Dolly knew it must now be done. With a grave little face she brought out her Bible, laid it on the table, and opened it at the fifth chapter of Matthew.
"Here comes our domestic chaplain!" said her father. Dolly looked up at him and smiled.
"Then of course you would not interfere with anything the chaplain does?" she said.
"Only not preach," said her father in the same tone. "I don't approve of any but licensed preaching. And that one need not hear unless one has a mind to."
"I let the Bible do the preaching, generally," said Dolly. "But we do pray, father."
"Who?" said Mr. Copley quickly. "Your mother and you? Everybody prays, I hope, now and then."
"We do it now, and then too, father. Or rather,Ido it now, after reading."
Mr. Copley made no reply; and Dolly went on, feeling that the way was open to her, if it were also a little difficult to tread. She read part of the chapter, feeling every word through and through. Alas, alas, alas! The "poor in spirit," the "pure in heart," the "meek,"—where were these? and what had their blessing to do with the ears to which she was reading? The "persecuted for righteousness' sake,"—how she knew her father and mother would lay that off upon the martyrs of olden time, with whom and their way of life, they thought, the present time has nothing to do! and so, with the persecuted dismiss the meek and the pure. The blessings referred certainly to a peculiar set of persons; no one is called on in these days to endure persecution. Dolly knew how they would escape applying what they heard to themselves; and she knew, with her heart full, what they were missing thereby. She went on, feeling every word so thrillingly that it was no wonder they came from her lips with a very peculiar and moving utterance; that is the way with words that are spoken from the heart; and although indeed the lovely sentences might have passed by her hearers, as trite or unintelligible or obsolete, the inflexions of Dolly's voice caught the hearts of both parents and stirred them involuntarily with an answering thrill. She did not know it; she did know that they were very still and listening; and after the reading was done, though she trembled a little, her own feelings were so roused that it was not very difficult for Dolly to kneel down by the table and pray.
But she had only scanty opportunities of working upon her father in this or in any way; Mr. Copley's visits to Brierley, always short, began now to be more and more infrequent.
As weeks went on and the spring slipped by, another thing was unmistakable about these visits; Mr. Copley brought less money with him. Through the autumn and winter, the needs of the little household had been indifferently well supplied. Dolly had paid her servants and had money for her butcher and grocer. Now this was no longer always the case. Mr. Copley came sometimes with empty pockets and a very thin pocket-book; he had forgotten, he said; or, he would make it all right next time. Which Dolly found out he never did. Her servants' wages began to get in arrear, and Dolly herself consequently into anxious perplexity. She had, she knew, a little private stock of her own, gained by her likenesses and other drawings; but like a wise little woman as she was, Dolly resolved she would not touch it unless she came to extremity. But what should she do? Just one thing she was clear upon; she wouldnotrun in debt; she would not have what she could not pay for. She paid off one servant and dismissed her. This could not happen without the knowledge of Mrs. Copley.
"But however are you going to manage? the latter asked in much concern.
"Honestly, mother. Oh, and nicely too. You will see. I must be a poor thing if I could not keep these little rooms in order."
"And make beds? and set tables? and wash dishes?"
"I like to set tables. And what is it to wash two cups and spoons? And if I make the beds, we shall have them comfortable."
"Jane certainly had her own ideas about making beds, and they were different from mine," said Mrs. Copley. "But I hate to have you, Dolly. It will make your hands red and rough."
"Nothing does that for my hands, luckily, mother, dear. Don't you mind. We shall get on nicely."
"But what's the matter? haven't you got money enough?"
"Mother, I won't have servants that I cannot pay punctually."
"Don't your father give you money to pay them?"
"He gave me money enough to pay part; so I pay part, and send the other part away," said Dolly gaily.
"Ihopehe has not got into speculation again," said Mrs. Copley. "I can't think what he busies himself about in London."
This subject Dolly changed as fast as she could. She feared something worse than speculation. Whether it were cards, or dice, or betting, or more business-like forms of the vice, however, the legitimate consequences were not slow to come; the supply of money for the little household down at Brierley became like the driblets of a stream which has been led off from its proper bed by a side channel; only a few trickling drops instead of the full, natural current. Dolly could not get from her father the means to pay the wages of her remaining servant. This was towards the beginning of summer.
Dolly pondered now very seriously what she should do. The lack of a housemaid she had made up quite comfortably with her own two busy hands; Mrs. Copley at least had been in particular comfort, whenever she did not get a fit of fretting on Dolly's account; and Dolly herself had been happy, though unquestionably the said hands had been very busy. Now what lay before her was another thing. She could not consult her mother, and there was nobody else to consult; she must even make up her mind as to the line of duty the best way she might; and however the difficulty and even the impossibility of doing without anybody stared her in the face, it was constantly met by the greater impossibility of taking what she could not pay for. Dolly made up her mind on the negative view of the case; what shecouldbeing not clear, only what she could not. She would dismiss her remaining servant, and do the cooking herself. It would be only for two. And perhaps, she thought, this step would go further to bring her father to his senses than any other step she could take.
Dolly, however, went wisely to work. Quite alone in the house she and her mother could not be. She went to her friend Mrs. Jersey and talked the matter over with her; and through her got a little girl, a small farmer's daughter, to come and do the rough work. She let her mother know as little as possible about the matter; she took some of her own little stock and paid off the cook, representing to her mother no more than that she had exchanged the one helpmeet for the other. But poor Dolly found presently that she did not know how to cook. How should she?
"What's become of all our good bread?" said Mrs. Copley, a day or two after the change. "And, Dolly, I don't know what you call this, but if it is meant for hash, it is a mistake."
Dolly heard in awed silence; and when dinner and breakfast had seen repeated animadversions of the like kind, she made up her mind again and took her measures. She went to her friend Mrs. Jersey, and asked her to teach her to make bread.
"To make bread!" the good housekeeper repeated in astonishment. "You, Miss Dolly? Can that be necessary?"
"Mother cannot eat poor bread," said Dolly simply. "And there is nobody but me to make it. I think I can learn, Mrs. Jersey; cannot I?"
The tears stood in the good woman's eyes. "But, my dear Miss Dolly," she began anxiously, "this is a serious matter. You do not look very strong. Who does the rest of the cooking? Pardon me for being so bold to ask; but I am concerned about you."
Therewith Dolly's own eyes became moist; however, it would never do to take that tone; so she shook off the feeling, and confessed she was the sole cook in her mother's establishment, and that for her mother's well-doing it was quite needful that what she eat should be good and palatable. And Dolly declared she would like to know how to do things, and be independent.
"You've got the realest sort of independence," said the housekeeper. "Well, my dear, come, and I'll teach you all you want to know."
There followed now a series of visits to the House, in which Mrs. Jersey thoroughly fulfilled her promise. In the kind housekeeper's room Dolly learned not only to make bread and biscuit, and everything else that can be concocted of flour, but she was taught how to cook a bit of beefsteak, how to broil a chicken, how to make omelettes and salads and a number of delicate French dishes; stews and soups and ragouts and no end of comfortable things. Dolly was in great earnest, therefore lost not a hint and never forgot a direction; she was quick and keen to learn; and Mrs. Jersey soon declared laughingly that she believed she was born to be a cook.
"And it goes great qualities to that, Miss Dolly," she said. "You needn't take it as low praise. There are people, no doubt, that are nothingbutcooks; that's the fault of something else, I always believe. Whoever can be a real cook can be something better if he has a chance and a will."
"It seems to me, it is just common sense, Mrs. Jersey."
"I suppose you are not going to tell me thatthatgrows on every bush? Yes, common sense has a great deal to do, no doubt; but one must have another sort of sense; one must know when a thing is right; and one must be able to tell the moment of time when it is right, and then one must be decided and quick to take it then and not let it have the other moment which would make it all wrong. Now, Miss Dolly, I see you know when to take off an omelette—and yet you couldn't tell me how you know."
Dolly's learning was indeed by practising with her own hands. One day it happened that Lady Brierley had come into the housekeeper's room to see about some arrangements she was making for Mrs. Jersey's comfort. While she was there, Dolly opened the door from an adjoining light closet, with her sleeves rolled up to her elbows and her arms dusted with flour. Seeing somebody whom she did not know, Dolly retreated, shutting the door after her.
"Whom have you got there, Mrs. Jersey?" said the lady, forgetting what she had come about. "That girl is too handsome to be among the maids."
"She's not among the maids, my lady. She is not in the house. She only came to get some instruction from me, which I was very glad to give her?"
"Of course. That is quite in your way. But she does not belong in the village, I think?"
"No, my lady, nor hereabouts at all, properly. She lives in Brierley Cottage; she and her mother; I believe the father is there now and by times, but they live alone mostly, and he is in London. They have been much better off; and last year they went travelling all through Europe. I thought I should never see them again; but here they are back, and have been for a year."
"I think I have heard of them. Are they poor?"
"I am much afraid so, my lady."
"Would it do any good, Jersey, if I went there?"
"It would be a great kindness, my lady. I think it might do good."
The final result of all which was a visit. It was now full summer; the season had come into its full bloom and luxuriance. Roses were opening their sweet buds all around Brierley Cottage; the honeysuckles made the porch into an arbour; the garden was something of a wilderness, but a wilderness of lovely, old-fashioned things. One warm afternoon, Dolly with a shears in her hand had gone out into the garden to cut off the full-blown roses, which to-morrow would shed their leaves; doing a little trimming by the way, both of rose-bushes and other things; the wildering of the garden had been so great. And very busy she was, and enjoying it; "cutting in" here, and "cutting out" there, flinging the refuse shoots and twigs carelessly from her into the walk to be gathered up afterwards. She was so busy she never heard the roll of carriage wheels, never heard them stop, nor the gate open; knew nothing, in fact, but the work she was busy with, till a slight sound on the gravel near by made her look round. Then she saw at one glance the lady standing there in laces and feathers, the carriage waiting outside the gate, and the servants in attendance around it. Dolly shook herself free of the roses and stepped forward, knowing very well who it must be. A little fresh colour had been brought into her cheeks by her exercise and the interest in her work; a little extra flush came now, with the surprise of this apparition. She was as lovely as one of her own rose-branches, and the wind had blown her hair about, which was always wayward, we know, giving perhaps to the great lady the impression of equal want of training. But she was very lovely, and the visitor could not take her eyes off her.
"You are Miss—Copley?" she said. "I have heard Mrs. Jersey speak of you."
"Mrs. Jersey is a very kind friend to me," said Dolly. "Will Lady Brierley walk in?"
Mrs. Jersey is her friend, thought the lady as she followed Dolly into the cottage. Probably she is just of that level, and my coming is thrown away. However, she went in. The little cottage sitting-room was again something of a puzzle to her; it was not rich, but neither did it look like anything Mrs. Jersey would have contrived for her own accommodation. Flowers filled the chimney and stood in vases or baskets; books lay on one table, on the other drawing materials; and simple as everything was, there was nevertheless in everything the evidence, negative as well as positive, that the tastes at home there were refined and delicate and cultivated. It is difficult to tell just how the impression comes upon a stranger, but it came upon Lady Brierley before she had taken her seat. Dolly too, the more she looked at her, puzzled her. She had set down her basket of roses and thrown off her garden hat, and now opened the blinds which shaded the room too much, and took a chair near her visitor. The girl's manner, the lady saw, was extremely composed; she did not seem at all fluttered at the honour done her, and offered her attentions with a manner of simple courtesy which was graceful enough but perfectly cool. So cool, that it rather excited Lady Brierley's curiosity, who was accustomed to be a person of great importance wherever she went. Her eye took in swiftly the neatness of the room, its plainness, and yet its expression of life and mental activity; the work and workbasket on the chair, the bunch of ferns and amaranthus in one vase, the roses in another, the violets on the table, the physiognomy of the books, which were not from the next circulating library, the drawing materials; and then came back to the figure seated before her, with the tossed, beautiful hair and the very delicate, spirited face; and it crossed Lady Brierley's mind, if she had a daughter like that!—with the advantages and bringing up she could have given her, what would she not have been! And the next thought was, she was glad that her son was in Russia. Dolly had opened the window and sat quietly down. She knew her mother would not wish to be called. Once, months ago, Dolly had a little hoped for this visit, and thought it might bring her a pleasant friend, or social acquaintance at least; now that so long time had passed since Lady Brierley's return, with no sign of kindness from the great house, she had given up any such expectation; and so cared nothing about the visit. Dolly's mind was stayed elsewhere; she did not need Lady Brierley; and it was in part the beautiful, disengaged grace of her manner which drew the lady's curiosity.
"I did not know Brierley Cottage was such a pretty place," she began.
"It is quite comfortable," said Dolly. "Now in summer, when the flowers are out, I think it is very pretty."
"You are fond of flowers. I found you pruning your rose-bushes, were you not?"
"Yes," said Dolly. "The old man who used to attend to it has left me in the lurch since we went away. If I did not trim them, they would go untrimmed. They do go untrimmed, as it is."
"Is there no skill required?"
"Oh yes," said Dolly, her face wrinkling all up with fun; "but I have enough for that. I have learned so much. And pruning is very pretty work. This is not just the time for it."
"How can it be pretty? I do not understand."
"No, I suppose not," said Dolly. "But I think it is pretty to cut out the dead wood which is unsightly, and cut away the old wood which can be spared, leaving the best shoots for blossoming the next year. And then the trimming in of overgrown bushes, so as to have neat, compact, graceful shrubs, instead of wild, awkward-growing things—it is constant pleasure, for every touch tells; and the rose-bushes, I believe seem almost like intelligent creatures to me."
"But you would not deal with intelligent creatures so?"
"The Lord does," said Dolly quietly.
"What do you mean?" said the lady sharply. "I do not understand your meaning."
"I did not mean that all people were rose-bushes," said Dolly, with again an exquisite gleam of amusement in her face.
"But will you not be so good as to explain? Whatcanyou mean, by your former remark?"
"It is not a very deep meaning," said Dolly with a little sigh. "You know, Lady Brierley, the Bible likens the Lord's people, Christians, to plants in the Lord's garden; and the Lord is the husbandman; and where He sees that a plant is growing too rank and wild, He prunes it—cuts it in—that it may be thriftier and healthier and do its work better."
"That's a dreadful idea! Where did you get it?"
"Christ said so," Dolly answered, looking now in the face of her questioner. "Is it a dreadful idea? It does not seem so to me. He is the husbandman. And I would not like to be a useless branch."
"You have been on the Continent lately?" Lady Brierley quitted the former subject.
"Yes; last year."
"You went to my old lodging-house at Sorrento, I think I heard from Mrs. Jersey. Did you find it comfortable?"
"Oh, delightful!" said Dolly with a breath which told much. "Nothing could be nicer, or lovelier."
"Then you enjoyed life in Italy?"
"Very much. But indeed I enjoyed it everywhere."
"What gave you so much pleasure? I envy you. Now I go all over Europe, and find nothing particular to hold me anywhere. And I see by the way you speak that it was not so with you."
"No," said Dolly, half smiling. "Europe was like a great, real fairyland to me. I feel as if I had been travelling in fairyland."
"Do indulge me and tell me how that was? The novelty, perhaps."
"Novelty is pleasant enough," said Dolly, "but I do not think it was the novelty. Rome was more fascinating the last week than it was the first."
"Ah, Rome! there one never gets to the end of the novelties."
"It was not that," said Dolly shaking her head. "I grew absolutely fond of the gladiator; and Raphael's Michael conquering the dragon was much more beautiful to me the last time I saw it than ever it was before; and so of a thousand other things. They seemed to grow into my heart. So at Venice. The palace of the doges—I did not appreciate it at first. It was only by degrees that I learned to appreciate it."
"Your taste for art has been uncommonly cultivated!"
"No" said Dolly. "I do not know anything about art. Till this journey I had never seen much."
"There is a little to see at Brierley," said the lady of the house. "I should like to show it to you."
"I should like dearly to see it again," said Dolly. "Your ladyship is very kind. Mrs. Jersey did show me the house once, when we first came here; and I was delighted with some of the pictures, and the old carvings. It was all so unlike anything at home."
"At home?" said Lady Brierley enquiringly.
"I mean, in America."
"Novelty again," said the lady, smiling, for she could not help liking Dolly.
"No," said Dolly, "not that. It was far more than that. It was the real beauty,—and then, it was the tokens of a family which had had power enough to write its history all along. There was the power, and the history; and such a strange breath of other days. There is nothing like that in America.''
"Then we shall keep you in England?" said Lady Brierley still with a pleased smile.
"I do not know," said Dolly; but her face clouded over and lost the brightness which had been in it a moment before.
"I see you would rather return," said her visitor. "Perhaps you have not been long enough here to feel at home with us?"
"I have been here for several years," said Dolly. "Ever since I was fifteen years old."
"That is long enough to make friends."
"I have not made friends," said Dolly. "My mother's health has kept her at home—and I have stayed with her."
"But, my dear, you are just at an age when it is natural to want friends and to enjoy them. In later life one learns to be sufficient to one's self; but not at eighteen. I am afraid Brierley must be sadly lonely to you."
"Oh no," said Dolly, with her sweet gleam of a smile, which went all over her face; "I am not lonesome."
"Will you come and see me sometimes?"
"If I can. Thank you, Lady Brierley."
"You seem to me to be a good deal of a philosopher," said the lady, who evidently still found Dolly a puzzle. "Or is it rather an artist, that I should say?"—glancing at the drawing-table—"I know artists are very sufficient to themselves."
"I am neither one nor the other," said Dolly, laughing.
"You are not apathetic—I can see that. What is your secret, Miss Copley?"
"I beg your pardon—what secret does your ladyship mean?"
"Your secret of content and self-reliance. Pardon me—but you excite my envy and curiosity at once."
Dolly's look went back to the fire. "I have no secret," she said gravely. "I am not a philosopher. I am afraid I am not always contented. And yet Iamcontent," she added, "with whatever the Lord gives me. I know it is good."
Lady Brierley saw tears in the eyes, which were so singularly wise and innocent at once. She was more and more interested, but would not follow Dolly's last lead. "What do you draw?" she asked, again turning her head towards the drawing materials.
"Whatever comes in my way," said Dolly. "Likenesses, sometimes; little bits of anything I like."
Lady Brierley begged to be shown a specimen of the likenesses; and forthwith persuaded Dolly to come and make a picture of herself. With which agreement the visit ended.
If she had come some months ago, thought Dolly as she looked after the retreating figure of her visitor, I should have liked it. She might have been a friend, and a great help. Now, I don't think you can, my lady!