The End of a Coil

"Were they persecutors too?"

"Great. It is so strange to look at their faces here, in this museum, after so many centuries. I suppose they will stand here, maybe, till the end of the world. Come away – we have been so long in this gallery we have not left time enough for the other rooms."

They went to the Hall of the Gladiator; and there Dolly studied the figure which gives name to the place, with a kind of rapt intensity. She described to her companion the meaning of the marble; but it was not the same thing to them both. Dolly was lost in delighted contemplation. Rupert looked on with a kind of incredulous scorn.

"You don't care for it?" she said suddenly, catching a sight of his face.

"What's it good for?" said Rupert. "This ain't a likeness of anybody, is it?"

"It is a likeness of a great many people. Hundreds and hundreds died in such fashion as that, for the pleasure of the Roman people."

"Well, would it have been any satisfaction to you to see it?"

"Why, no! I hope not."

"Then why do you like to see it here now?"

"I don't! this is not reality, but an image."

"I can't see why you should like to look at the image, when you couldn't bear the reality."

"Why, Rupert" – Dolly began, but her further words were cut off.

"Met again!" said a soft voice. "You here! we did not know you would be in Rome so soon."

"Dolly!" exclaimed Christina, who followed her mother. "That's delightful. Dolly Copley in Rome! and in the Museo Capitolino. Who is with you?"

"We are all here," said Dolly, smiling.

"Yes, yes, in Rome, of course; but you are not in the museum alone?"

Dolly presented Mr. Babbage.

"And how is your mother?" Mrs. Thayer went on. "Better! I am so glad. I thought she would be better in Italy. And what have you done with your handsome cavaliero servente– Mr. St. Leger?"

"I left him at home with a magazine, in which I think there was a story," said Dolly.

"Impossible! his gallantry allowed you to come alone?"

"Not his gallantry, but perhaps his sense of weakness," Dolly answered.

"Of weakness, my dear? Is he a weak young man? He does not look it."

"Very good muscular power, I daresay; but when we talk of power of will, you know 'weakness' is relative. I forbade him, and he did not dare to come."

"You forbade him! and he obeyed? But, Christina, I do not think you have Mr. Shubrick in such training as that. Would he obey, if you gave him orders?"

"Probably the relations are different," said Dolly, obliging herself to keep a grave face. "I am in a happy independence of Mr. St. Leger which allows me to command him."

"Independence!" said Mrs. Thayer, with an air half curious, half confounded, which was a severe trial to Dolly's risible muscles. "I know young ladies are very independent in these days – I don't know whether it is a change for the better or not – but I do not think Christina would boast of her independence of her knight-errant."

"No," said Dolly. "The cases are different – as I said. Mr. St. Leger does not stand in that particular relation to me."

"Doesn't he? But, my dear, I hope you haven't quarrelled?"

"Not at all," said Dolly. "We do not like each other well enough to quarrel."

"But he struck me as a most delightful young man."

"I believe he generally makes that impression."

"I used to know his father," said Mrs. Thayer. "He was a sad flirt. I know, you see, my dear, because I was one myself. I am glad Christina does not take after me. But I used to think it was great fun. Is Mr. St. Leger anything of a flirt?"

"I have had no opportunity of knowing, ma'am," said Dolly gravely.

"Well, you will bring him to see us? You are all coming to make us a visit at our villa, at Sorrento; and Mr. Shubrick is coming; Christina wants to show him to you; you know a girl is always proud of her conquests; and then we will go everywhere and make you see everything. You have just no notion how delightful it is at Sorrento in the spring and summer. It's Paradise!"

"But you are coming first to spend Christmas with me, Dolly," said her friend, who until now had hardly been able to get in a word. "I have five thousand things to talk to you about. My sailor friend has promised to be here too, if he can, and his ship is in the Mediterranean somewhere, so I guess he can; and I want you to see him. Come and spend Christmas Eve with me – do! and then we shall have a chance to talk before he comes. Of course there would be no chance after," she added with a confident smile.

Dolly was not much in a mood for visiting, and scantly inclined to mix in the joyous circle which must be breathing so different an atmosphere from her own. She doubted besides whether she could leave her watch and ward for so long a time as a night and a day. Yet it was pleasant to see Christina, and the opportunity to talk over old times was tempting; and her friend's instances were very urgent. Dolly at last gave a conditional assent; and they parted; Dolly and Rupert taking the way home.

"Is that lady a friend of yours?" Rupert enquired.

"The daughter; not the mother."

"The old lady, I meant. She has a mind to know all about us."

"Why?"

"She asked me about five hundred and fifty questions, after she quitted you."

"What did you tell her?"

"I told her what she knew before," said Rupert, chuckling. "Her stock of knowledge hasn't grown very much, I guess, by all she got out of me. But she tried."

Dolly was silent. After a short pause, Rupert spoke again in quite another tone.

"Miss Dolly, you've put me in a sort of a puzzle. You said a little while ago, or you spoke as if you thought, that all those grand old Roman emperors were not after all great men. Then, if they were not great, what's a fellow to try for? If a common fellow does his best, he will not get to the hundredth or the thousandth part of what those men did. Yet you say they were not great. What's the use of my trying, for instance, to do anything, or be anything?"

"What did they do, Rupert?"

"Well, you seem to say, nothing! But don't you come to Rome to admire what they did?"

"Some of the things they did, or made. But stand still here, Rupert, and look. Do you see the Rome of the Caesars? You see an arch here and a theatre there; but the city of those days is buried. It is under our feet. The great works of art here, those that were done in their day, were not done by them. Do you think it is any good to one of those old emperors in the other world – take the best of them – is it any good to him now that he had some of these splendid buildings erected, or marbles carved? Or that his armies conquered the world, and his government held order wherever his arms went? If he is happy in the presence of God, is it anything to him, now, that we look back and admire his work? – and if he is unhappy, banished that Presence, is it anything to him then?"

"Well, what is greatness then?" said Rupert. "What is worth a man's trying for, if these greatest things are worth nothing?"

"I do not think anything is really great or worth while," said Dolly, "except those things that God likes."

"You come back to religion," said Rupert. "I did not mean religion. What are those things?"

"I do not think anything is worth trying for, Rupert, except the things that will last."

"What things will last?" said he half impatiently.

"Look here," said Dolly. "Step a little this way. Do you see the Colosseum over yonder? Who do you think will remember, and do remember, that with most pleasure; Vespasian and Titus who built it, or the Christians who gave themselves to the lions there for Christ's sake?"

"Yes," said Rupert, "of course; but that isn't the thing. There are no lions here now."

"There are lions of another sort," said Dolly, standing still and with her eyes fixed upon the wonderful old pile in the distance. "There is always work to be done for God, Rupert, and dangers or difficulties to be faced; and to the people who face any lions for His sake, there is a promise of praise and honour and blessing that will last for ever."

"Then you would make all a man's work to be work for God?" said Rupert, not satisfied with this view of the question. "What is to become of all the rest of the things that are to be done in the world?"

"There ought not to be anything else done in the world," said Dolly, laughing, as she turned and began to walk on again. "It ought all to be done for Him. Merchants ought to make money for His service; and lawyers ought to strive to bring God's order between man and man, and justice to every one, and that never wrong should be done or oppression exercised by anybody. 'Break every yoke, and let the oppressed go free.' And soldiers ought to fight for no other reason but to protect weaker people from violence and wrong. And so on of everything else. And, Rupert, God has promised a city, of His own preparing, for His people; it will be a place of delights; and I am thinking of that word, – 'Blessed are they that do His commandments; that they may have a right to the tree of life, and may enter in through the gates into the city.' I don't believe anybody that is left outside will think much of what we call greatness in that day."

"Why, the world wouldn't be the world, at that rate," cried Rupert.

"Think it wouldn't be altered for the better?"

"But a few people can't make it like that."

"Suppose they make only a very little piece of it like that? – But then comes the end, Rupert, and the King's 'Well done!'"

"Then you wouldn't have a man make as much as he can of himself," said Rupert after a dissatisfied pause.

"Certainly I would."

"What use?"

"Oh, to be a better servant to his Master, the best he possibly can; and to do more work for Him; the most he can do."

"It seems to me, Miss Dolly, if you are right, pretty much all the rest of the world are wrong."

"Yes, Rupert; don't you remember the Bible says that the wrong way is the broad way, where almost all the people go?"

Rupert's meditations this time held him till they got home.

The days that intervened before Christmas were filled full with delightful business. Dolly had her anxieties, it is true; but she was in Rome. What could stand against the witchery of the enchantress city? Anxieties fell into the background; and with all the healthy, elastic spring of her young years Dolly gave herself to the Present and the Past, and rejoiced, hour by hour and step by step, in what the Present and the Past opened up to her. True, her father and mother hardly shared in her pleasure; Mr. Copley's taste was blunted, I fear, for all noble enjoyment; and Mrs. Copley cared mainly to be comfortable in her home quarters, and to go out now and then where the motley world of fashion and of sight-seeing did most congregate. Especially she liked to go to the Pincian Hill Sunday afternoon, and watch the indescribable concourse of people of all nationalities which is there to be seen at that time. But there Dolly would not go.

"It is very absurd of you, Dolly!" cried her mother, greatly disappointed; for she had a pride in seeing the universal attention which was drawn to Dolly in every public place. "What harm should there be in looking at the beautiful view and hearing music? we are not going to do anything."

"It's the Lord's day, mother," said Dolly, looking up at her sorrowfully.

"You went to church this morning all right," her mother said. "There is no church for you to go to at this time of day, that I know of; and if there were, I should think it very ridiculous to go again. If you want to think, you could think about good things, I should hope, on the Pincian. What is there to hinder you?"

"Only everything I should see and hear, mother."

"Hinder you from thinking about good things!"

"Hinder me from thinking about anything," said Dolly, laughing a little.

"Seriously, Miss Dolly," said Lawrence, who stood by, hat in hand, ready to go; the Pincian Hill Sunday evening was something he quite approved of; – "seriously, do you think there is anything wrong in sitting up there for an hour or two, and seeing the beautiful sunset colours, and hearing the music?"

"She's a little Puritan," said her father; "and the Puritans were always an obstinate set, Lawrence; always, and in every nation and people. I wonder why the two things should go together."

"What two things, father?"

"What you call Puritanism and obstinacy."

"I suppose because those you call Puritans love the truth," said Dolly; "and so hold to it."

"And do you not think other people, who are not Puritans, also love the truth, Miss Dolly?" Lawrence asked.

"I don't think anybody loves the truth he disobeys," Dolly said with a gentle shake of her head.

"There!" said her mother. "There's Dolly all over. She is right, and nobody else is right. I wonder what she supposes is to become of all the rest of the world! Everybody in Rome will be on the Pincian to-night except Dolly Copley. And every other mother but me will have her daughter with her."

In answer to which Dolly kissed her, pulled the strings of her bonnet into a prettier bow, and looked at her with sweet, shining eyes, which said as plainly as possible without words that Mrs. Copley knew better. The party went off, nevertheless; and Lawrence, lingering till the others had turned their backs, held out his hand to Dolly.

"Will you tell me," said he, "as a favour, what you think is the harm of what we are doing?"

"You are just robbing the King of heaven and earth," Dolly answered gravely.

"Robbing! Of what?"

"Of time which He says is His, and of honour which He says ought to be His."

"How?"

"'The seventh day is the Sabbath of the Lord thy God.'"

"This is not the seventh; it is the first."

"Quibbling, Mr. St. Leger. It is not the seventh from Monday, but it is the seventh from Sunday; it is the one day set apart from the seven."

"And what ought we to do with it? Sabbath means rest, does it not? What are we going to do but rest up there on the Pincian? only rest most delightfully. You will not rest so here."

"I suppose your bodies will rest," said Dolly. "Your minds will have most uncommon powers of abstraction if they do."

"But you are putting yourself out of the world, Dolly."

"I mean it," said she with a little nod at him. "The Lord's people are not of the world, Mr. St. Leger; and the world does not like their ways. Never did."

"I wonder if all Puritans are as quaint as you," said he, kissing the hand he held. But then he went off to the Pincian.

And there, surely, was a most wonderful, rich, and varied scene; a concourse of people of all characters and nationalities – except the small party in the world which Dolly represented; a kaleidoscope view of figures and costumes, classes and callings, most picturesque, most diversified, most changeful. There were the Thayers, amongst others; and as they joined company with the Copley party, of course Mrs. Copley's pleasure was greatly increased; for in a crowd it is always pleasant to know somebody. Mr. Copley knew several people. Mrs. Thayer had leisure to tell and ask whatever she had a mind with Mrs. Copley, and to improve her acquaintance with Mr. St. Leger; who on his part managed to get some conversation with the beautiful Christina. It was a distinction to be talking to such a beauty, and he felt it so; and Christina on her part was not insensible to the fact that the young man was himself very handsome, and unexceptionably well dressed, and the heir to many thousands; therefore a person of importance. The time on the Pincian Hill that evening was very pleasantly spent; and so Mrs. Copley told her daughter on their return.

"Mrs. Thayer said she was very sorry not to see you," Mrs. Copley added.

"I am much obliged to her."

"You are not obliged to her at all, for she didn't mean it. That's what you get by staying behind."

"What?" said Dolly, dimpling up.

"That woman had it all her own way; talked to Mr. St. Leger, and let him talk to her daughter. You see, Dolly, Christina is very handsome when you are not by."

"Mother, she is at any time. She's beautiful. You must not set me up in comparison with her."

"Well, she's engaged," said Mrs. Copley. "I wish you were. You let everything hang by the eyelids, Dolly; and some fine morning what you look for won't be there."

CHAPTER XXV

CHRISTMAS EVE

Christmas Eve came, and Rupert attended Dolly to the Piazza di Spagna, where her friends had apartments in a great hotel. Dolly was quite prepared to enjoy herself; the varied delights of the foregoing days had lifted her out of the quiet, patient mood of watchful endurance which of late had been chronic with her, and her spirits were in a flow and stir more fitted to her eighteen years. She was going through the streets of Rome! the forms of the ages rose before her mind's eye continually, and before her bodily eye appeared here and there tokens and remains which were like the crumblings of those ages; tangible proofs that once they had been, and that Rome was still Rome. Dolly drew breaths of pleasure as she and Rupert walked along.

"You are going to stay all night?" said Rupert.

"Yes, they want me."

"And they have asked nobody but you?" said Rupert, who was not conventional.

"They wanted nobody but me. It is not a party; it is my old school-friend only, who wants to show me her future husband."

Rupert grunted his intelligence, and at the same time his mystification. "What for?" he asked. And Dolly laughed.

"I don't know! It is natural, I suppose, to some people. Here we are. Good night."

The Thayers were very well lodged indeed. Dolly found herself in really charming rooms, well furnished and well lighted. She was joyfully received, and Christina led her forthwith through saloon and dining-room to the sanctuary of her own chamber. A certain feeling of contrast began to fall upon Dolly already, Christina looked so very fresh and fair and well kept; the lightest veil of anxiety had never shadowed her bloom; the most remote cloud of embarrassment or need had never risen on her horizon. Careless, happy, secure, her mind knew no burden. It made Dolly feel the pressure of her own; and yet she was glad, for a little, to get into this atmosphere of peace and confidence, and enjoy it even by the contrast. Christina's room looked like a curiosity shop. It was littered with recent purchases; all sorts of pretty things, useful and useless.

"One cannot help buying," she said, excusing herself. "I see something at every step that I want; and I must get it when I see it, or I may never see it again, you know. It is great fun, but sometimes I almost get tired. Here, dear, I can lay your things here. Isn't my fire nice? Now sit down and warm yourself. It's too delightful to have you! It is like a bit of home, and a bit of old times. Those old school days were pleasant?"

"Very pleasant!" said Dolly, sitting down and looking into the queer but bright fire of small sticks which burned in Christina's chimney. "Very pleasant! I was with my dear Aunt Hal, in Philadelphia."

"But these days are better, Dolly," Miss Thayer went on. "That wasn't much compared to this."

"I don't know," said Dolly. "There was no care in those times."

"Care?" exclaimed Christina, as if she did not know the meaning of the word. "What care have you, Dolly? I have none, except the care to make my money buy all I want – which it won't, so I may as well make up my mind to it, and I do. What have you been getting in Rome?"

"Oh, more pleasure than I knew so many days could hold," said Dolly, laying some of the sticks of the fire straight.

"Isn't it wonderful? I think there's nothing like Rome. Unless, perhaps, Paris."

"Paris!" said Dolly. "What's at Paris?"

"Ah, you don't know it, or you wouldn't ask! Everything, my dear. Rome has a good deal, certainly, but Paris has everything. Now tell me, – are you engaged?"

"I? No. Of course not."

"I don't see why it's of course. Most people are at one time or another; and I didn't know but your time had come."

"No," said Dolly. "Neither the time nor the man. I've come to hear about yours."

"If he's good, you'll see him; the man, I mean. He promised to be with us at Christmas, if he could; and he always keeps his promises."

"That's a good thing," said Dolly.

"Ye-s," said Christina, "that is, of course, a good thing. One likes to have promises kept. But it is possible to have too much of a good thing."

"Not of keeping promises!" said Dolly in unfeigned astonishment.

"I don't know," said Christina. "Sandie is so fixed in everything; he holds to his opinions and his promises and his expectations; and he holds a trifle too fast."

"He has a right to hold to his expectations, surely," said Dolly, laughing.

"Not too much," said Christina. "He has no right to expect everybody to keep their promises as precisely as he does his! People aren't made alike."

"No; but honour is honour."

"Come, now, Dolly," said Christina laughing in her turn, "you are another! You are just a little bit precise, like my Sandie. You cannot make all the world alike, if you try; and he can't."

"I am not going to try, and I think it would be a very stupid world if I could do it; but nobody ought to raise expectations he is not prepared to gratify."

"Like a sentence out of a book!" cried Christina. "But Sandie is the most unchangeable person; he will not take any views of anything but the views he has always taken; he is as fixed as the rock of Gibraltar, and almost as distinct and detached from the rest of the world."

"And don't you like that?"

"No; confess I do not. I'd like him to come down a little from his high place and mix with the rest of us mortals."

"What expectations does he indulge which you are not willing to meet?"

"That's the very thing!" cried Christina, in her turn stooping to arrange the little sticks and pile more on; "he is unreasonable."

"How?"

"Wants me to marry him."

"Is that unreasonable?"

"Yes! till things are ready for such a step, and I am ready."

"What things?"

"Dolly, he is only the first officer of his ship. He was distinguished in the last war, and he has the prospect of promotion. I don't want to marry him till he is a captain."

"Why?" said Dolly.

"Why? – Don't you understand? He would have a better position then, and better pay; and could give me a better time generally; and mamma thinks we ought to wait. And I like waiting. It's better fun, I do think, to be engaged than to be married. I know I shouldn't have my head near so much if I was married to Sandie. I do just as I like now; for mamma and I are always of a mind."

"And are not you and Mr. Shubrick of a mind?"

"Not about this," said Christina, getting up from the hearth, and laughing.

"Pray, if one may ask, how long have you and he been waiting already?"

"Oh, he thinks it is a great while; but what is the harm of waiting?"

"Well, how long is it, Christina?"

"Dolly, we were engaged very young. It was before I left school; one summer when I was home for the vacation. I was sixteen; that is four years ago, and more."

"Four years!" cried Dolly.

"Yes. Of course we were too young then to think of marrying. He was home on furlough, and I was home for the vacation; and our houses were near together; and so we made it up. His people were not very well off, but mine were; so there was nothing in the way, and nobody objected much; only mother said we must wait."

"What are you waiting for now, Christina?"

"I told you. I am in no hurry, for my part. I want Sandie to get his ship; and in the meanwhile it is just as nice to be as we are. We see each other when we can; and Italy is Italy; and I am very contented. Unfortunately, Sandie isn't."

"How long do you propose to go on waiting?"

"I don't know. Oh, I don't know! and I don't care. What is the harm of waiting?"

"That depends on what you promise yourselves in being married."

"Dolly," said Christina thoughtfully, "I don't promise myself anything much better than I have got now. If Sandie would only be content, I could go on so for ever."