"For a little. How would they be, do you think, if all their pleasures were taken away?—their money, and all their money gets for them; friends and all?"
"Wretched dogs," said Rupert.
"But nobody in the world that loved Christ was ever that," Dolly said, smiling.
There was in her smile something so tender and triumphant at once, that it silenced Rupert. It was a testimony quite beyond words. For that instant Dolly's spirit looked out of the transparent features, and the light went to Rupert's heart like an arrow. Dolly moved on, and he followed, not looking at the gladiators' shields or Greek armour.
"Then, Miss Dolly," he burst out, after his thoughts had been seething a little while,—"if this world is so little count, what's the use of anything that men do? what's the good of studying—or of working—or of coming to look at these old things?—or of doing anything else, but just religion?"
Dolly's eyes sparkled, but she laughed a little.
"You cannot 'do' religion that way, Rupert," she said. "The old monks made a mistake. What is the use? Why, if you are going to be a servant of Christ and spend your life in working for Him, won't you be the very best and most beautiful servant you can? Do you think a savage has as much power or influence in the world as an educated, accomplished, refined man? Would he do as much, or do it as well? If you are going to give yourself to Christ, won't you make the offering as valuable and as honourable as you can? That is what you would do if you were giving yourself to a woman, Rupert. I know you would."
Rupert had no chance to answer, for strangers drew near, and Dolly and he passed on. Perhaps he did not wish to answer.
There were other times when Dolly visited the museum with her father. Then she studied the frescoes from Pompeii, the marble sculptures, or sat before some few of the pictures in the collections of the old masters. Mr. Copley was patient, admiring her if he admired nothing else; but even he did admire and enjoy some of the works of art in which the museum is so rich; and one day he and Dolly had a rare bit of talk over the collection of ancient glass. Such hours made Dolly only the more grieved and distressed when she afterwards perceived that her father had been solacing himself with other and very much lower pleasures.
It was not till the end of May that they got away from Naples. Mrs. Copley was long tired of her stay there, and even, she said, tired of the bay! Dolly was glad to have her father at a distance from hotels and acquaintances, even though but for a time; and the gentlemen liked moving, as men always do. So the little party in the carriage were in very good spirits and harmony. Rupert had gone on before with the luggage, to make sure that all was right about the rooms and everything ready. They were engaged in the house to which Lady Brierley's housekeeper had given them the address.
The day was one of those which travellers tell us of in the south of Italy, when spring is in its glory or passing into summer. In truth, the weather was very warm; but Dolly at least never regarded that, in her delight at the views presented to her. After Castellamare was passed, and as the afternoon wore on, her interest grew with every step. Villages and towns, rocks and trees, were steeped in a wonderful golden light; vineyards and olive groves were etherialised; and when they drew near to Meta, and the plain of Sorrento opened before them, Dolly hung out of the carriage almost breathless.
"Is it better than the bay of Naples?" asked Lawrence, smiling.
"I am not comparing," said Dolly. "But look at the trees! Did you ever see such beautiful woods?"
"Hardly woods, are they?" said Lawrence. "There's variety, certainly."
"Said to be a very healthy place," remarked Mr. Copley. "I envy you, Dolly. You can get pleasure out of a stick, if it has leaves on it. Naturally, the plain of Sorrento—— But this sun, I confess, makes me wish for the journey's end."
"That is not far off, father. Yonder is Sorrento."
And soon the carriage rolled into the town, and turning then aside brought them to a house on the outskirts of the place, situated on a rocky cliff overhanging the shore of the sea. Rupert met them at the gate, and announced a neat house, civil people, comfortable lodgings, and dinner getting ready.
"I only hope they will not give us maccaroni with tomatoes," said Mrs. Copley. "I am so tired of seeing maccaroni with tomatoes."
"Don't mind for to-day, mother, dear," said Dolly. "We'll have it all right to-morrow."
The rooms were found so pleasant, bright and clean, that even Mrs. Copley was satisfied. The dinner, which was ready for them as soon as they were ready for it, proved also excellent; with plenty of fresh vegetables and fruit. Till the meal was over, Dolly had scarce a chance to see where she was; but then she left the others at the table and went out at the open glass door upon a piazza which extended all along the sea front of the house. Here she stood still and cried to the others to follow her. The house was built, as I said, like many houses in Sorrento, on the edge of a rocky cliff, from which there was fair, unhindered view over the whole panorama of sea and land. The sun was descending the western sky, and the flood of Italian light seemed to transfigure the world. Between the verandah and the absolute edge of the rocks, the space was filled with beds of flowers and shrubbery; and a little a one side, so as not to interrupt the view, were fig-trees and pomegranate-trees and olives. Dolly ran down the steps into the garden, and the rest of the party could not but come after her. Dolly's face was flushed with delight.
"Did anybody ever see such colours before?" she cried. "Oh, the colours! Look at the blue of the water, down there in the shade; and then see that delicious green beyond, set off by its fringe of white foam; and then where the sun strikes, and where the clouds are reflected."
"It is just what you have been seeing in the bay of Naples," said Mrs. Copley.
"And Vesuvius, mother! Do look at Vesuvius; how noble it is from here, and in this light."
"We had Vesuvius at Naples too," said Mrs. Copley. "It is a wonder to me how people can be so fond of being near it, when you never know what tricks it will play you."
"Mother, dear, the lavanevercomes so far as this, in the worst eruptions."
"The fact that it never did does not prove what it may do some time."
"You are not afraid of it, surely?" said Mr. Copley.
"No," said his wife. "But I have no pleasure in looking at anything that has done, and is going to do, so much mischief. It seems to me a kind of monster."
"You cannot be fond of the sea, at that rate, Mrs. Copley," Lawrence observed.
"No, you are right," she said. "The only thing I like about it is, that it is the way home."
"You don't want to see the way home just now, my dear," said Mr. Copley. "You have but now got to the place of your desires."
"If you ask me what that is, it is Boston," said Mrs. Copley.
But, however, for a while she did take satisfaction in the quiet and beauty and sweet air of Sorrento. Dolly revelled in it all. She was devoted to her mother and her mother's pleasure, it is true; and here as at Rome and Naples she was thus kept a good deal in the house. Nevertheless, here, at Sorrento, she tempted her mother to go out. A little carriage was procured to take her to the edge of one of the ravines which on three sides enclose the town; and then Dolly and her mother, with Rupert's help, would wind their way down amid the wilderness of lovely vegetation with which the sides and bottom of the ravine were grown. At the bottom of the dell they would provide Mrs. Copley with a soft bed of moss or a convenient stone to rest upon; while the younger people roved all about, gathering flowers, or finding something for Dolly to sketch, and coming back ever and anon to Mrs. Copley to show what they had found or tell what they had seen; and Mrs. Copley for the time forgot her ills, and even forgot Boston, and was amused, and enjoyed the warm air and the luxuriant and sweet nature of Italy. Sometimes Lawrence came instead of Rupert; and Dolly did not enjoy herself so well. But Lawrence was at his own risk now; she could not take care of him. Except by maintaining her calm, careless, disengaged manner; and that she did. There were other times when Dolly and Rupert went out in a boat on the sea. Steps in the rock led immediately down from the garden to the shore; on the shore were fishermen's huts, and a boat was always to be had. Long expeditions by water could not be undertaken, for Mrs. Copley could not be tempted out on the sea, and she might not be long left alone; but there were lovely hours, when Rupert rowed the boat over the golden and purple waves, when all the air seemed rosy and all the sea enamelled, and the sky and the clouds (as Rupert said) were as if they had come out of a fairy book; every colour was floating there and sending down a paradise of broken rainbows upon water and land and the heads of the two pleasure-takers.
But even at Sorrento there was a shadow over Dolly.
For the first weeks the gentlemen, that is, Mr. Copley and his supposed secretary, made numerous excursions. Mrs. Copley utterly declined to take part in anything that could be called an excursion; and Dolly would not go without her. Lawrence and Mr. Copley therefore went whither they would alone, and saw everything that could be seen within two or three days of Sorrento; for they were gone sometimes as long as that. They took provisions with them; and Dolly sadly feared, nay, she knew, that wines formed a large part of their travelling stock on these occasions; she feared, even, no small part of the attraction of them. Mr. Copley generally came back not exactly the same as when he went; there was an indescribable look and air which made Dolly's heart turn cold; a disreputable air of license, as if he had been indulging himself in spite of strong pledges given, and in disregard of gentle influences that were trying to deter him. And when he had not been on excursions, Dolly often knew that he had found his favourite beverage somewhere and was a trifle the worse for it. What could she do? she asked herself with a feeling almost of desperation. She had done all she knew; what remained? Her father was well aware how she felt. Yet no! not that. He could not have the faintest conception of the torture he gave his daughter by making her ashamed of him, nor of the fearful dread which lay upon her of what his habit of indulgence might end in. If hehad, Mr. Copley could not, at this stage of things at least, have borne it. He must have yielded up anything or borne anything, rather than that she should bear this. But he was a man, and could not guess it; if he had been told, he would not have understood it; so he had his pleasure, and his child's heart was torn with sorrow and shame.
There came a day at last when in their lodgings Mr. Copley called for a bottle of wine at dinner. Dolly's heart gave a great jump.
"O father, we do not want wine!" she cried pleadingly.
"I do," said Mr. Copley, "and St. Leger does. Nonsense, my dear! no gentleman takes his dinner without his wine. Isn't it so, Lawrence?"
And the wine was brought, and the two gentlemen helped themselves. Mrs. Copley accepted a little; Rupert,—Dolly looked to see what he would do,—Rupert quietly put it by.
So it had come to this again. Not all her prayers and tears and known wishes could hold her father back from his desire. The desire must already be very strong! Dolly kept her composure with difficulty. She ate no more dinner. And it was a relief to thoughts she could scarcely bear, when Rupert in the evening asked her to go out and take a row on the water.
Such an evening as it was! Dolly ran gladly down the rocky steps which led to the shore, and eagerly followed Rupert into the boat. She thought to escape from her trouble for a while. Instead of that, when the boat got away from the shore, and Dolly was floating on the crimson and purple sea, with a flush of crimson and purple sent down upon her from the clouds, and everything in the world glowing with colour or tipped with gold,—her face as she gazed into the glory took such an expression of wan despair, that Rupert forgot where he was. Greatly he longed to say something to break up that look; and could not find the words. The beauty and the peace of the external world wrought, as it sometimes does, by the power of contrast; and had set Dolly to thinking of her father and of his and her very doubtful future. What would become of him if his present manner of life went on?—and what would become of his wife and of her? What could she do, more than she had done, in vain? Dolly tried to think, and could not find. Suddenly, by some sweet association of rays of light, there came into her mind the night before Christmas, and the moonshine in Christina's room, and the words that were so good to her then. "Who shall separate us from the love of Christ?" Yes, thought Dolly,—that is sure. Nothing can come between. Nothing can takethatjoy from me; "neither death nor life; nor things present, nor things to come." But, oh! I wish my father and mother had it too!—With that came a rush of tears to her eyes; she turned her face away from Rupert so that he might not see them. Had she done anything, made any efforts, to bring them to that knowledge? With her mother, yes; with her father, no. It had seemed hopelessly difficult. How could she set about it? As she pondered this question, Rupert saw that the expression of her face had changed, and now he ventured to speak.
"Miss Dolly, you set me a thinking in Rome."
"Did I?" said Dolly, brightening. "About what?"
"And in Naples you drove the nail further in."
"What nail? what are you talking about, Rupert?"
"Do you remember what you said when we were coming from the Capitoline Museum? We were looking at the Colosseum."
"I do not recollect."
"I do. You drove the nail in then; and when we were in Naples, at the museum there, you gave it another hit. It's in now."
Dolly could not help laughing.
"You are quite a riddle, Rupert. I make nothing of it."
"Miss Dolly, I've been thinking that I will go home."
"Home?" And Dolly's face now grew very grave indeed.
"Yes. I've been splitting my head thinking; and I've about made up my mind. I think I'll go home." Rupert was very serious too, and pulled the oars with a leisurely, mechanical stroke, which showed he was not thinking ofthem.
"What home? London, do you mean?"
"Well, not exactly. I should think not! No, I mean Boston, or Lynn rather. There's my old mother."
"Oh!—your mother," said Dolly slowly. "And she is at Lynn. Is shealonethere?"
"She's been alone ever since I left her; and I'm thinking that's what she hadn't ought to be."
Dolly paused. The indication seemed to be, that Rupert was taking up the notion of duty; duty towards others as well as pleasure for himself; and a great throb of gladness came up in her heart, along with the sudden shadow of what was not gladness.
"I think you are quite right, Rupert," she said soberly. "Then you are purposing to go back to Lynn to take care of her?"
"I set out to see the world and to be something," Rupert went on, looking thoughtfully out to sea;—"and I've done one o' the two. I've seen the world. I don' know as I should ever be anything, if I staid in it. But your talk that day—those days—wouldn't go out of my head; and I thought I'd give it up, and go home to my old mother."
"I'll tell you what I think, Rupert," said Dolly; "a man is a great deal more likely to come out right in the end and 'be something,' if he follows God's plan for him, than if he makes a plan for himself. Anyhow, I'd rather have that 'Well done,' by and by"—— She stopped.
"How's a man to find out God's plan for him?"
"Just the way you are doing. When work is set before you, take hold of it. When the Lord has some more for you He'll let you know."
"Then you think thisismy work, Miss Dolly, to go home and take care of her? She wanted me to make a man of myself; and when Mr. Copley made me his offer, she didn't hold me back. But she cried some!"
"You cannot do another so manly a thing as this, Rupert. I wouldn't let her cry any more, if I were you."
"No more I ain't a-goin' to," said the young man energetically. "But, Miss Dolly"——
"What?"
"Do you think it is my duty, because I do one thing, to do t'other? Do you think I ought to take to shoemaking?"
"Why to shoemaking, Rupert?"
"Well, my father was a shoemaker. They're all shoemakers at Lynn, pretty much."
"That is no reason why you should be. Your education, the education you have got since you came over to this side, has fitted you for something else, if you like something else better."
"That's just what I do!" said Rupert with emphasis. "But I could make a good living that way—I was brought up to it, you see;—and I s'poseshe'dlike me to take up the old business; but I feel like driving an awl through a board whenever I think of it."
"I wouldn't do it, Rupert, if I could do something I was more fit for. People always do things best that they like to do. I think the choice of a business is your affair. Do what you can do best. But I'd make shoes rather than do nothing."
"I don't know what I am fit for," said Rupert, evidently relieved, "but—oh yes, I wouldcobbleshoes rather than do nothing. I don't want to eat idle bread. Then I'll go."
"Your experience here, in London and on this journey, will not have been lost to you," Dolly observed.
"It's been the best thing ever happened to me, this journey," said the young man. "And you've done me more good, Miss Dolly, than anybody in this world,—if it ain't my mother."
"I? I am very glad. I am sure you have done a great deal for me, Rupert."
"You have put me upon thinking. And till a fellow begins to think, he ain't much more good than a cabbage."
"When will you go, Rupert? I wish we were going too!"
"Well, I guess my old mother has sat lookin' for me long enough. I guess I'll start pretty soon."
"Will you?" said Dolly. "But not before we have made our visit to Mrs. Thayer's villa? We are going there next week."
"I'll start then, I guess."
"And not go with us to the Thayers'?"
"I guess not."
"Didn't they invite you?"
"Not a bit of it! Took good care not, I should say."
"How do you mean?"
"Well, Miss Dolly, Mrs. Thayer was standing two feet from me and asking Mr. St. Leger, and she didn't look my way till she had got through and was talking of something else; and then she looked as if I had been a pane of glass and she was seeing something on the other side—as I suppose she was."
Dolly was silent for a few minutes and then she said, "How I shall miss you, Rupert!"—and tears were near, though she would not let them come.
And Rupert made no answer at all, but rowed the boat in.
Yes, Dolly knew she would miss him sadly. He had been her helper and standby and agent and escort and friend, in many a place now, and on many an occasion. He had done for her what there was no one else to do, ever since that first evening when he had made his appearance at Brierley and she had wished him away. So little do people recognise their blessings often at first sight. Now,—Dolly pondered as she climbed the cliff,—how would she get along without Rupert? How long would her father even be content to abide with her mother and her in their quiet way of living? she had seen symptoms of restlessness already. What should she do if he became impatient? if he left them to St. Leger's care and went back to London? or if he carried them off with him perhaps? To London again! And then afresh came the former question, what was there in her power, that might draw her father to take deeper and truer views of life and duty than he was taking now? A question that greatly bothered Dolly; for there was dimly looming up in the distance an answer that she did not like. To attack her father in private on the subject of religion, was a step that Dolly thought very hopeless; he simply would not hear her. But there was another thing she could do—could she do it? Persuade her father and mother to consent to have family prayer? Dolly's heart beat and her breath came quick as she passed through the little garden, sweet with roses and oleander and orange blossoms. How sweet the flowers were! how heavenly fair the sky over her head! So it ought to be in people's hearts, thought Dolly;—so in mine. And if it were, I should not be afraid of anything that was right to do. And thisisright to do.
Dolly avoided the saloon where the rest of the family were, and betook herself to her own room; to consider and to pray over her difficulties, and also to get rid of a few tears and bring her face into its usual cheerful order. When at last she went down, she found her mother alone, but her father almost immediately joined them. The windows were open towards the sea, the warm, delicious air stole in caressingly, the scent of roses and orange blossoms and carnations filled the house and seemed to fill the world; moonlight trembled on the leaves of the fig-tree, and sent lines of silver light into the room. The lamp was lowered and Mrs. Copley sat doing nothing, in a position of satisfied enjoyment by the window.
As Dolly came in by one door, Mr. Copley entered by another, and flung himself down on a chair; his action speaking neither enjoyment nor satisfaction.
"Well!" said he. "How much longer do you think you can stand this sort of thing?"
"What sort of thing, father?"
"Do you sit in the dark usually?"
"Come here, father," said Dolly, "come to the window and see the moonshine on the sea. Do you call that dark?"
"Your father never cared for moonshine, Dolly," said Mrs. Copley.
"No, that's true," said Mr. Copley with a short laugh. "Haven't you got almost enough of it?"
"Of moonshine, father?"
"Yes—on the bay of Sorrento. It's a lazy place."
"You have not been very lazy since you have been here," said his wife.
"Well, I have seen all there is to be seen; and now I am ready for something else. Aren't you?"
"But, father," said Dolly, "I suppose, just because Sorrento is what you call a lazy place it is good for mother."
"Change is good for her too—hey, wife?"
"You will have a change next week, father; you know we are going for that visit to the Thayers."
"We shall not want to stay there long," said Mr. Copley; "and then we'll move."
Nobody answered. Dolly looked out sorrowfully upon the beautiful bright water. Sorrento had been a place of peace to her. Must she go so soon? The scent of myrtles and roses and oranges came in bewilderingly at the open window, pleading the cause of "lazy" Sorrento with wonderfully persuasive flatteries. Was there any other place in the world so sweet? Dolly clung to it, in heart; yearned towards it; the glories of the southern sun were what she had never imagined, and she longed to stay to enjoy and wonder at them. The fruits, the flowers, the sunny air, the fulness and variedness of the colouring on land and sea, the leisure and luxury of bountiful nature,—Dolly was loath, loath to leave them all. No other Sorrento, she was ready to believe, would ever reveal itself to her vision; and she shrank a little from the somewhat rough way she had been travelling before and must travel again. And now in the further way, Rupert, her helper and standby, would not be with her. Then again came the words of Christmas Eve to her—"Who shall separate us from the love of Christ?"—and with the words came the recollection of the new bit of service Dolly had found to do in her return and answer to that love. Yet she hesitated, and her heart began to beat faster, and she made no move until her father began to ask if it were not time to leave the moonlight and go to bed. Dolly came from the window, then to the table where the lowered lamp stood.
"Mother and father, I should like to do something," she said with an interrupted breath. "Would you mind—may I—will you let me read a chapter to you before we go?"
"A chapter of what?" said her father; though he knew well enough.
"The Bible."
There was a pause. Mrs. Copley stirred uneasily, but left the answer for her husband to give. It came at last, coldly.
"There is no need for you to give yourself that trouble, my dear. I suppose we can all read the Bible for ourselves."
"But not as a family, father?"
"What do you mean, Dolly?"
"Father, don't you think we ought together, as a family,—don't you think we ought to read the Bible together? It concerns us all."
"It's very kind of you, my daughter; but I approve of everybody managing his own affairs," Mr. Copley said, as he rose and lounged, perhaps with affected carelessness, out of the room. Dolly stood a moment.
"May I read to you, mother?"
"If you like," said Mrs. Copley nervously; "though I don't see, as your father says, why we cannot every one read for ourselves. Why did you say that to your father, Dolly? He didn't like it."
Dolly made no reply. She knelt down by the low table to bring her Bible near the light, and read a psalm, her voice quivering a little. She wanted comfort for herself, and half unconsciously she chose the twenty-seventh psalm.
"'The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?'"
Her voice grew steady as she went on; but when she has finished, her mother was crying.
The place inhabited by the Thayers was a regular Italian villa. It had not been at all in order that suited English notions of comfort, or American either, when they moved in; but they had painted and matted and furnished, and filled the rooms with pretty things, pictures and statues and vases and flowers; till it looked now quite beautiful and festive. Its situation was perfect. The house stood high, on the shore overlooking the sea, with a full view of Vesuvius, and it was surrounded with a paradise of orange-trees, fig-trees, pomegranates, olives, oaks and oleanders, with roses and a multitude of other flowers; in a wealth of sweetness and luxuriance of growth that northern climes know nothing of. The reception the visitors met with was joyous.
"I am so glad you are come!" cried Christina, as she carried off Dolly through the hall to her particular room. "That bad boy, Sandie, has not reported yet; but he will come; and then we will go everywhere. Have you been everywhere already?"
"I have been nowhere. I have staid with mother, and she wanted to be quiet."
"Well, she can be quiet now with my mother; they can take care of each other. And you have not been to Capri?"
"No."
"Just think of it! How delightful! You have not seen the Grotta azzurra?"
"I have seen nothing."
"Nor the grotto of the Sirens? You have seenthat?It was so near."
"No, I have not. I have been nowhere; only with mother to gather ferns and flowers in the dells around Sorrento. We used to take mother in a donkey cart—a calessino—to the edge of the side of the dell, and then help her down, and get loads of flowers and ferns. It was very pleasant."
"I wish Sandie would only come—the tiresome fellow! There's no counting on him. But he will come. He said he would if he could, and he can of course. I suppose you have not visited Paestum yet then?"
"I believe father went there. We did not."
"Nor we, yet. I don't care so much—only I like to keep going—but father is crazy to see the ruins. You know the ruins are wonderful. Do you care for ruins?"
"I believe I do," said Dolly, smiling, "when the ruins are of something beautiful. And those Greek temples—oh, Ishouldlike to see them."
"I would rather see beautiful things when they are perfect; not in ruins; ruins are sad, don't you think so?"
"I suppose they ought to be," said Dolly, laughing now. "But somehow, Christina, I believe the ruins give me more pleasure than if they were all new and perfect—or even old and perfect. It is a perverse taste, I suppose, but I do."
"Why? They are not so handsome in ruins."
"They are lovelier."
"Lovely!—for old ruins! I can understand papa's enthusiasm; he's a kind of antiquity worshipper; but you—and 'lovely!'"
"And interesting, Christina. Ruins tell of so much; they are such grand books of history, and witnesses for things gone by. But beautiful—oh yes, beautiful beyond all others, if you talk of buildings. What is St. Peter's, compared to the Colosseum?"
Christina stared at her friend. "What is St. Peter's? A most magnificent work of modern art, I should say; and you compare it to a tumbledown old bit of barbarism. That'stoolike Sandie. Do you and your friend agree as harmoniously as Sandie and I? We ought to exchange."
"I have no 'friend,' as you express it," said Dolly, pulling her wayward, curling locks into a little more order. "Mr. St. Leger is nothing to me—if you are speaking of him."
"I am sure, if he told the truth, he would not say that of you," said Christina, looking with secret admiration at the figure before her. It was a rare kind of beauty, not of the stereotyped or formal sort; like one of the dainty old vases of alabaster, elegant in form and delicate and exquisite in chiselling and design, with a pure inner light showing through. That was not the comparison in Christina's mind, and indeed she made none; but women's eyes are sometimes sharp to see feminine beauty; and she confessed that Dolly's was uncommon, not merely in degree but in kind. There was nothing conventional about it; there never had been; her curling hair took a wayward way of its own; her brown eyes had a look of thoughtfulness mingled with childlike innocence; they always had it more or less; now the wisdom was more sweet and the innocence more spiritual. Her figure and her manner were all in harmony, wearing unconscious grace and a very simple, free dignity.
"We cannot go to Paestum at this season of the year, they say," Christina began again, at a distance from her thoughts; "but onecango to the Punta di Campanella and Monte San Costanzo; and as soon as Sandie comes, we will. We will wait a day for him first."
Dolly was quite willing to wait for him; for, to tell the truth, one of her pleasures in the thought of this visit had been the possibility of seeing Mr. Shubrick again. She did not say so, however; and the two girls presently went back to the hall. This was a luxurious apartment, occupying the centre of the house; octagonal, and open to the outer world both at front and back. Warm and yet fresh air was playing through it; the odours of flowers filled it; the most commodious of light chairs and settees furnished it; and scattered about the wide, delicious space were the various members of the party. Mrs. Thayer and Mrs. Copley had been sitting together; just now, as the girls entered, Mrs. Thayer called St. Leger to her.
"I am delighted to see you here, Mr. St. Leger," she said graciously. "You know your father was a very old friend of mine."
"That gives me a sort of claim to your present kindness," said St. Leger.
"You might put in a claim to kindness anywhere," returned the lady. "Don't you get it, now, if you tell the truth?"
"I have no reason to complain—in general," said the young man, smiling.
"You are a little like your father. He was another. We were great cronies when I was a girl. In fact, he was an old beau of mine. We used to see a vast deal of each other;—flirting, I suppose you would call it; but how are young people to get along without flirting? I liked him very much, for I always had a fancy for handsome men; and if you ask him, he will tell you that I was handsome too at that time. Oh, I was! you may look at me and be incredulous; but I was a belle in those days; and I had a great many handsome men around me, and some not handsome. ....Was I English? No. You don't understand how I could have seen so much of your father. Well, never doubt a story till you have heard the whole of it. I was an American girl; but my father and mother were both dead, and I was sent to England, to be brought up by an aunt, who was the nearest relation I had in the world. She had married an Englishman and settled in England."
"Then we may claim you," said Lawrence. "To all intents and purposes you are English."
"Might have been," returned Mrs. Thayer. "The flirtation ran very high, I can tell you, between your father and me. He was a poor man then. I understand he has nobly recovered from that fault. Is it true? People say he is made of gold."
"There is no lack of the material article," Lawrence admitted.
"No. Well, the other sort we know he had, or this would never be true of him now. I did not look so far ahead then. There is no telling what would have happened, but for a little thing. Just see how things go. I might have married in England, and all my life would have been different; and then came along Mr. Thayer. And the way I came to know him was this. A cousin of mine in America was going to be married, and her friend was a friend of Mr. Thayer. Mr. Thayer was coming over to England, and my cousin charged him with a little piece of wedding cake in white paper to bring to me. Just that little white packet! and Mr. Thayer brought it, and we saw one another, and the end was, I have lived my life on the other side instead of on this side."
"It's our loss, I am sure," said St. Leger civilly.
"You are too polite to say it is mine, but I know you think so. Perhaps it is. At any rate, I was determined, and am determined, that my daughter shall see and choose for herself which hemisphere she will live in. What are you doing in Italy?"
"What everybody does in Italy, looking at the old and enjoying the new."
"Ah, that's what it is!" said Mrs. Thayer approvingly. "That is what one enjoys. But my husband is one of the other sort. We divide Italy between us. He looks at the marbles, and I eat the pomegranates. Do you like pomegranates?—No? I delight in them, and in everything else fresh and new and sweet and acid. But what I want to know, Mr. St. Leger, is—how come these old ruins to be so worth looking at? Hasn't the human race made progress? Can't we raise as good buildings now-a-days, and as good to see, as those old heathen did?"
"I suppose we can, when we copy their work exactly."
"But how is that? Christians ought to do better work than heathens. I do not understand it."
"No," said St. Leger, "I do not understand it."
"Old poetry—that's what they study so much at Oxford and Cambridge, and everywhere else;—and old pictures, and old statues. I think the world ought to grow wiser as it grows older. I believe it is prejudice. There's my husband crazy to go to Paesturn,—I'm glad he can't; the marshes or something are so unhealthy; but I'm going to arrange for you an expedition to the Punta—Punta di something—the toe of the boot, you know; it's delightful; you go on donkeys, and you have the most charming views, and what I know you like better than anything,—the most charming opportunities for flirtation."
"It will have to be Miss Thayer and I then," said Lawrence. "Miss Copley does not know how."
"Nonsense! Don't tell me. Every girl does. She has her own way, I suppose. Makes it more piquant—andpiquing."
Lawrence looked over towards the innocent face, so innocent of anything false, he knew, or even of anything ambiguous; a face of pure womanly nature, childlike in its naturalness, although womanly in its gravity. Perhaps he drew a swift comparison between a man's chances with a face of that sort, and the counter advantages of Christina's more conventional beauty. Mr. Thayer had sat down beside Dolly and was drawing her into talk.
"You are fond of art, Miss Copley. I remember we met you first in the room of the dying gladiator, in the Capitoline Museum. But everybody has to go to see the dying gladiator and the rest."
"I suppose so," said Dolly.
"I remember, though, I thought you were enjoying it."
"Oh, I was."
"I can always find out whether people really enjoy things. How many times did you go to see the gladiator? Let me see,—you were in Rome three months?"
"Nearer four."
"Four! Well, and how many times did you see the gladiator?"
"I don't quite know. Half a dozen times, I think. I went until I had got it by heart; and now I can look at it whenever I like."
"Humph!" said Mr. Thayer. "The only thing Christina wanted to see a second time was the mosaics; and those she did not get by heart exactly, but brought them away, a good many of them, bodily. And have you developed any taste for architecture during your travels?"
"I take great pleasure in some architecture," said Dolly.
"May I ask what instances? I am curious to see how our tastes harmonise."
"Ah, but I know nothing about it," said Dolly. "I am entirely—or almost entirely—ignorant; and you know and understand."
"'Almost entirely?'" said Mr. Thayer. "You have studied the subject?"
"A little," said Dolly, smiling and blushing.
"Do favour me. I am desirous to know what you have seen that particularly pleased you."
"The cathedral at Limburg."
"Limburg. Oh—ah! yes, it wastherewe first met you. I was thinking it was in the museum of the Capitol. Limburg. You liked that?"
"Very much!"
"Romanesque—or rather Transition."
"I do not know what Romanesque is, or Transition either."
"Did you notice the round arches and the pointed arches?"
"I do not remember. Yes, I do remember the round arches; but I was thinking rather of the effect of the whole."
"The church at Limburg shows a mixture of the round Romanesque and the pointed Gothic; Gothic was preparing; that sort of thing belongs to the first half of the thirteenth century. Well, that bespeaks very good taste. What next would you mention, Miss Dolly?"
"I don't know; I have enjoyed so many things. Perhaps I should say the Doge's palace at Venice."
"Ha! the Doge's palace, hey? You like the pink and white marble."
"Don't you, Mr. Thayer?"
"That's not what one looks for in architecture. What do you say to St. Peter's?"
"You will find a great deal of fault with me. I did not care for it."
"Not? It is Michael Angelo's work."
"But knowing the artist is no reason for admiring the work," said Dolly, smiling.
"You are very independent! St. Peter's! Not to admire St. Peter's!"
"I admired the magnificence, and the power, and a great many things; but I did not like the building. Not nearly so much as some others."
"Now I wish we could go to Paestum, and see what you would say to pure old Greek work. But it would be as much as our lives are worth, I suppose."
"Yes, Mr. Thayer," his wife cried; "don't talk about Paestum; they are going to-morrow to the point."
"The point? what point? the coast is full of points."
"The Punta di Campanella, papa," said Christina.
"I thought you were going to Capri?"
"We'll keep Capri till Sandie comes. He would be a help on the water. All our marine excursions we will keep until Sandie comes. I only hope he'll be good and come."
The very air seemed full of pleasant anticipations; and Dolly would have been extremely happy; was happy; until on going in to dinner she saw the wineglasses on the table, and bottles suspiciously cooling in water. Her heart sank down, down. If she had had time and had dared, she would have remonstrated; but yet what could she say? She knew, too, that the wine at Mr. Thayer's table, like everything else on it, would be of the best procurable; better and more alluring than her father could get elsewhere. In her secret heart there was a bitter unspoken cry of remonstrance. O friends! O friends!—she was ready to say,—do you know what you are doing? You are dropping sweet poison into my life; bitter poison; deadly poison, where you little think it; and you do it with smiles and coloured glasses! She could hardly eat her dinner. She saw with indescribable pain and a sort of powerless despair, how Mr. Copley felt the license of his friend's house and example, and how the delicacy of the vintages offered him acted to dull his conscience; Mr. Thayer praising them and hospitably pressing his guest to partake. He himself drank very moderately and in a kind of mere matter-of-fact way; it was part of the dinner routine; and St. Leger tasted, as a man who knows indeed what is good, but also makes it a matter of no moment; no more than his bread or his napkin. Mr. Copley drank with eager gusto, and glass after glass; even, Dolly thought, in a kind of bravado. And this would go on every day while their visit lasted; and perhaps not at dinner only; there were luncheons, and for aught she knew, suppers. Dolly's heart was hot within her; so hot that after dinner she could not keep herself from speaking on the subject to Christina. Yet she must begin as far from her father as possible. The two girls were sitting on the bank under a fig-tree, looking out on the wonderful spectacle of the bay of Naples at evening.
"There is a matter I have been thinking a great deal about lately," she said, with a little heartbeat at her daring.
"I daresay," laughed Christina. "That is quite in your way. Oh, I do wish Sandie would come! Heoughtto be here."
"This is no laughing matter, Christina. It is a serious question."
"You are never anything but serious, are you?" said her friend. "If you have a fault, it is that, Dolly. You don't laugh enough."
Dolly was silent and swallowed her answer; for what did Christina know about it?Shehad not to watch over her father; her father watched over her. Presently she began again; her voice had a little strain in its tone.
"This is something for you and me to consider; for you and me, and other women who can do anything. Christina, did you ever think about the use of wine?"
"Wine?" echoed Miss Thayer, a good deal mystified. "The use of it? I don't know any use of it, except to give people, gentlemen, something to talk of at dinner. Oh, it is good in sickness, I suppose. What are you thinking of?"
"I am thinking of the harm it does," said Dolly in a low voice.
"Harm? What harm? You are not one of those absurd people I have heard of, who cut down their apple-trees for fear the apples will be made into cider?"
"I have no apple-trees to cut down," said Dolly. "But don't you know, Christina, that there is such a thing as drinking too much wine? and what comes of it?"
"Not among our sort of people," said Christina. "I know there are such things as drunkards; but they are in the lower classes, who drink whisky and gin. Not among gentlemen."
Dolly choked, and turned her face away to hide the eyes full of tears.
"Too much wine?" Christina repeated. "One may have too much of anything. Too much fire will burn up your house; yet fire is a good thing."
"That's only burning up your house," said Dolly sorrowfully.
"Onlyburning up your house! Dolly Copley, what are you thinking of?"
"I am thinking of something infinitely worse. I am thinking of a man losing his manhood; of families losing their stay and their joy, because the father, or the husband, or the brother, has lost himself!—gone down below his standing as an intellectual creature;—become a mere animal, given up to low pleasures which make him sink lower and lower in the scale of humanity. I am thinking ofhisloss and oftheirloss, Christina. I am thinking of the dreadfulness of being ashamed of the dearest thing you have, and the way hearts break under it. And don't you know that when the love of wine and the like gets hold of a person, it is stronger than he is? It makes a slave of him, so that he cannot help himself."
Christina's thoughts made a rapid flight over all the persons for whom Dolly could possibly fear such a fate, or in whom she could possibly have seen such an example. But Mr. St. Leger had the clear, fresh colour of perfect health and condition; Mr. Copley loved wine evidently, but drank it like a gentleman, and gave, to her eyes, no sign of being enslaved. What could Dolly be thinking of? Her mother was out of the question.
"I don't make out what you are at, Dolly," she said. "Such things do not happen in our class of society."
"Yes, they do. They happen in every class. And the highest ought to set an example to the lowest."
"No use if they did. Anyhow, Dolly, it is nothing you and I can meddle with."
"I think we ought not to have wine on our tables."
"Mercy! Everybody does that."
"It is offering temptation."
"To whom? Our friends are not that sort of people."
"How do you know but they may be? How can you tell but the taste or the tendency may be where you least think of it?"
"You don't mean that Mr. St. Leger has anything of that sort?" said Christina, facing round upon her.
"No more than other people, so far as I know. I am speaking in general, Christina. The thing is in the world; and we, I do think, we whose example would influence people,—I suppose everybody's example influences somebody else—I think we ought to do what we can."
"And not have wine on our dinner-tables!"
"Would that be so very dreadful?"
"It would be very inconvenient, I can tell you, and very disagreeable. Fancy! no wine on the table. No one could understand it. And how our dinner-tables would look, Dolly, with the wine-glasses and the decanters taken off! And then, what would people talk about? Wine is such a help in getting through with a dinner-party. People who do not know anything else, and cannot talk of anything else, can taste wine; and have plenty to say about its colour, and itsbouquet, and its age, and its growth, and its manufacture, and where it can be got genuine, and how it can be adulterated. And so one gets through with the dinner quite comfortably."
"I should not want to see people who knew no more than that," said Dolly.
"Oh, but you must."
"Why?"
"And it does not do to be unfashionable."
"Why, Christina! Do you recollect what is said in the epistle of John—'The world knoweth us not'? I do not see how a Christiancanbe fashionable. To be fashionable, one must follow the ways of the world."
"Well, we must follow some of them," cried Christina, flaring up, "or people will not have anything to do with you."
"That's what Christ said,—'Because ye are not of the world, ... therefore the world hateth you.'"
"Do you like to have people hate you?"
"No; but rather that than have Jesus say I do not belong to Him."
"Dolly," said Christina, "you areveryhigh-flown! That might just do for one of Sandie's speeches."
"I am glad Mr. Shubrick is such a wise man."
"He's just a bit too wise for me. You see, I am not so superior. I should like to take him down a peg. And I—will if he don't come soon."
He did not come in time for the next day's pleasure-party; so the young ladies had only Mr. St. Leger and Mr. Thayer to accompany them. Mrs. Copley "went on no such tramps," she said; and Mrs. Thayer avowed she was tired of them. The expedition took all day, for they went early and came back late, to avoid the central heat of midday. It was an extremely beautiful little journey; the road commanding a long series of magnificent views, almost from their first setting out. They went on donkeys, which was a favourite way with Dolly; at Massa they stopped for a cup of coffee; they climbed Monte San Costanzo; interviewed the hermit and enjoyed the prospect; and finally settled themselves for as pleasant a rest as possible among the myrtles on the solitary point of the coast. From here their eyes had a constant regale. The blue Mediterranean spread out before them, Capri in the middle distance, and the beauties of the shore nearer by, were an endless entertainment for Dolly. Christina declared she had seen it all before; Mr. Thayer found nothing worthy of much attention unless it had antiquities to be examined; and the fourth member of the party was somewhat too busy with human and social interests to leave his attention free.
Mr. St. Leger had been now for a long time very unobtrusive in his attentions to Dolly, and Dolly partly hoped he had given her up; but that was a mistake. Perhaps he thought it was only a matter of time, for Dolly to get acquainted with him and accustomed to him; perhaps he thought himself sure of his game, if the fish had only line enough. Having the powerful support of Dolly's father and mother, all worldly interests on the side of his suit, a person and presence certainly unobjectionable, to say the least; how could a girl like Dolly, in the long run, remain unimpressed? He would give her time. Meanwhile, Mr. St. Leger was enjoying himself; seeing her daily and familiarly; he could wait comfortably. It would appear by all this that Lawrence was not an ardent man; but constitutions are different; there is an ardour of attack, and there is an ardour of persistence; and the latter, I think, belonged to him. Besides, he had sense enough to see that a too eager pressing of his cause with Dolly would ruin all. So he had waited, not discontentedly, and bided his time. Now, however, he began to think it desirable on many accounts to have the question decided. Mr. Copley would not stay much longer in Italy, Lawrence was certain, and the present way of life would come to an end; if his advantages were ever to bear fruit, it should be ripe now. Moreover, one or two other, and seemingly inconsistent, considerations came in. Lawrence admired Miss Thayer. Her beauty was even more striking, to his fancy, than Dolly's; if it were also more like other beauties he had seen. She had money too, and Dolly had none. Truly, Mr. St. Leger had enough of his own; but when did ever a man with enough not therefore desire more? He admired Christina very much; she suited him; if Dolly should prove after all obdurate, here was his chance for making himself amends. Cool! for an ardent lover; but Mr. St. Legerwasof a calm temperament, and these suggestions did come into his mind back of his liking for Dolly.
This liking was strong upon him the day of the excursion to the Punta di Campanella. Of necessity he was Christina's special attendant, Mr. Thayer being Dolly's. Many girls would not have relished such an arrangement, Lawrence knew; his sisters would not. And Dolly was in an acme of delight. Lawrence watched her whenever they came near each other, and marvelled at the sweet, childish-womanish face. It was in a ripple of pleasure; the brown, considerate eyes were sparkling, roving with quick, watchful glances over everything, and losing as few as possible of the details of the way. Talking to Mr. Thayer now and then, Lawrence saw her, with the most innocent, sweet mouth in the world; her smile and that play of lip and eye bewitched him whenever he got a glimpse of it. The play of Christina's features was never so utterly free, so absent from thought of self, so artless in its fun. Now and then, too, there came the soft, low ring of a clear voice, in laughter or talking, bearing the same characteristics of a sweet spirit and a simple heart; and yet, when in repose, Dolly's face was strong in its sense and womanliness. The combination held Mr. St. Leger captive. I do not know how he carried on his needful attentions to his companion; with a mechanical necessity, I suppose; when all the while he was watching Dolly and contrasting the two girls. He was not such a fool as not to know which indications promised him the best wife; or if not him, the man who could get her. And he resolved, if a chance offered, he would speak to Dolly that very day. For here was Christina, if his other hope failed. Hewascool; nevertheless, he was in earnest.
They had climbed up Monte San Costanzo and admired the view. They had rested, and enjoyed a capital lunch among the myrtles on the point. It was when they were on their way home in the afternoon, and not till then, that the opportunity presented itself which he had wished for. On the way home, the order of march was broken up. Christina sometimes dropped St. Leger to ride with her father; sometimes called Dolly to be her companion; and at last, declaring that she did not want Mr. St. Leger to have a sense of sameness about the day, she set off with her father ahead, begging Dolly to amuse the other gentleman.
Which Dolly made not the least effort to do. The scenery was growing more lovely with every minute's lengthening shadows; and she rode along, giving all her attention to it, not making to Mr. St. Leger even the remarks she might have made to Mr. Thayer. The change of companions to her was not welcome. St. Leger found the burden of conversation must lie upon him.
"We have not seen much of each other for a long time," he began.
"Only two or three times a day," said Dolly.
"And you think that is enough, perhaps!" said Lawrence hastily.
"Don't you think more would have a tendency to produce what Christina calls a 'sense of sameness'?" said Dolly, turning towards him a face all dimpled with fun.
"That is according to circumstances. The idea is not flattering. But, Miss Dolly," said Lawrence, pulling himself up, "in all this while—these months—that we have been travelling together, we have had time to learn to know each other pretty well.Youmust have been able to make up your mind about me."
"Which part of your character?"
"Miss Dolly," said Lawrence with some heat, "you know what I mean."
"Do I? But I did not know that I had to make up my mind about anything concerning you; I thought that was done long ago."
"And you do not like me any better now than you did then?"
"Perhaps I do," said Dolly slowly. "I always liked you, Mr. St. Leger, and I had cause. You have been a very kind friend to us."
"For your sake, Dolly."
"I am sorry for that," she said.
"And I have waited all this time in the hope that you would get accustomed to me, and your objections would wear away. You know what your father and mother wish concerning us. Does their wish not weigh with you?"
"No," said Dolly very quietly. "This is my affair, not theirs."
"It is their affair so far as your interests are involved. And I do not wish to praise myself; but you know they think that those interests would be secured by a marriage with me. And I believe I could make you happy, Dolly."
Dolly shook her head. "How could you?" she said. "We belong to two opposite parties, and are following two different lines of life. You would not like my way, and I should not like yours. How could either of us be happy?"
"Even granting all that," said Lawrence, "why should you not bear with my peculiarities, and I with yours, and neither be the worse? That is very frequently done."
"Is it? I do not think it ought to be done."
"Let us prove that it can be. I will never interfere with you, Dolly."
"Yes, you would," said Dolly, dimpling all over again. "Do you think you would make up your mind to have no wine in your cellar or on your table? Take that for one thing. I should have no wine on mine."
"That's a crotchet of yours," said he, smiling at her: he thought ifthiswere all, the thing might be managed.
"That is only one thing, Mr. St. Leger," Dolly went on very gravely now. "I should be unfashionable in a hundred ways, and you would not like that. I should spend money on objects and for causes that you would not care about nor agree to. I am telling you all this to reconcile you to doing without me."
"Your refusal is absolute, then?"
"Yes."
"You would not bring up these extraneous things, Dolly, if you had any love for me."
"I do not know why that should make any difference. It might make it hard."
"Then youhaveno love for me?"
"I am afraid not," said Dolly gently. "Not what you mean. And without that, you would not wish for a different answer from me."
"Yes, I would!" said he. "All that would come; but you know your own business best."
Dolly thought she did, and the proposition remained uncontroverted. Therewith the discourse died; and the miles that remained were made in unsocial silence. Dolly feared she had given some pain, but doubted it could not be very great; and she was glad to have the explanation over. Perhaps the pain was more than she knew, although Lawrence certainly was not a desperate wooer; nevertheless, he was disappointed, and he was mortified, and mortification is hard to a man. For the matter of that, it is hard to anybody. It was not till the villa occupied by the Thayers was close before them that he spoke again.
"Do you expect to stay much longer in Italy?"
"I am afraid not," Dolly answered.
"I have reason to think Mr. Copley will not. Indeed, I know as much. I thought you might like to be informed."
Dolly said nothing. Her eyes roved over the beautiful bay, almost with an echo of Eve's "Must I then leave thee, Paradise?" in her heart. The smoke curling up from Vesuvius caught the light; little sails skimming over the sea reflected it; the sweetness of thousands of roses and orange blossoms, and countless other flowers, filled all the air; it was a time and a scene of nature's most abundant and beautiful bounty. Dolly checked her donkey, and for a few minutes stood looking; then with a brave determination that she would enjoy it all as much as she could while she had it, she went into the house.