The End of a Coil

"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 this is right 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.

CHAPTER XXVIII

AT THE VILLA

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 seen that? 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, I should like 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's too like 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 one can go 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 – and piquing."

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 was there we 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! He ought to 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? She had not to watch over her father; her father watched over her. Presently she began again; her voice had a little strain in its tone.