The End of a Coil

"Father, I wish you would take us back to our real old home – back to Roxbury!"

"Can't do it, my pet."

"But, father, why not? What should keep you in England?"

"Business."

"Now that you are out of the office?"

"Yes. Do you think all business is confined to the consuls' offices? A few other people have something to do."

Dolly heard no tone of hope-giving in her father's words. She ceased and sat silent, leaning upon his knee as she was and looking off into the moonlight. Mrs. Thayer and Mr. St. Leger were carrying on a lively discourse about people and things unknown to her; Mr. Thayer was smoking; Mrs. Copley was silent and sorry and cast-down, like herself, she knew. Dolly's eye went roving through the moonlight as if it were never going to see moonlight again; and her heart was taking up the old question, and feeling it too heavy to carry, how should she save her father from his temptation? Under the pressure Dolly's heart felt very low; until again those words came and lifted her up, – "Who shall separate us from the love of Christ?" After that the sweet moonbeams seemed to be full of those words. I am not alone, thought Dolly, I am not forgotten; and He does not mean that I should be crushed, or hurt, by this arrangement of things, which I strove so to hinder. I will not be one of the "little faith" people. I will just trust the Lord – my Lord. What I cannot do, He can; and His ways are wonderful and past finding out.

So she was quieted. And yet as she sat there it came over Dolly's mind, as things will, quite unbidden; it came over her to think how life would go on here, in Italy, with Christina, after she was gone. When the lovely Italian chapter of her own life was closed up and ended, when she would be far away out of sight of Vesuvius, in the fogs of London, the sun of Naples would still be shining on the Thayers' villa. They would go sailing on blue water, or floating over the gold and purple reflections which sometimes seemed to fill both water and air; they would see the white shafts of Paestum, yes, it would be soon cool enough for that; or if they must wait for Paestum, there were enough old monasteries and ruined castles and beauties of the like sort to keep them busy for many a day. Beauties which Dolly and Mr. Thayer loved. Nobody else in the house loved them. Christina had hardly an eye for them; and St. Leger, if he looked, did not care for what he saw. Nevertheless, they three would go picnicking through the wonderful old land, where every step was on monumental splendour or historical ashes, and the sights would be before them; whether they had eyes to see or no. For Dolly it was all done. She was glad she had had so much and enjoyed so much; and that enjoyment had given memory such a treasure of things to keep, that were hers for all time, and could be looked at in memory's chambers whenever she pleased. Yet she could not see the moonlight on the bay of Naples this evening for the last time, and remember towards what she was turning her face, without some tears coming that nobody saw – tears that were salt and hot.

The journey home was a contrast to the way by which they had come. It pleased Mr. Copley to go by sea from Naples to Marseilles, and from thence through France as fast as the ground could be passed over, till they reached Dover. And although those were not the days of lightning travel, yet travelling continually, the effect was of one swift, confused rush between Naples and London. Instead of the leisurely, winding course pursued to Dresden, and from Dresden to Venice, deviating at will from the shortest or the most obvious route, stopping at will at any point where the fancy took them, dawdling, speculating, enjoying, getting good out of every step of the way, – this journey was a sort of flash from the one end of it to the other, with nothing seen or remembered between but the one item of fatigue. So it came about, that when they found themselves in a London lodging-house, and Mrs. Copley and Dolly sat down and looked at each other, they had the feeling of having left Sorrento last evening, and of being dazed with the sudden transition from Sorrento and sunshine to London and smoke.

"Well!" said Mr. Copley, rubbing his hands, "here we are!"

"I don't feel as if I was anywhere," said his wife. "My head's in a whirl. Is this the way you like to travel, Frank?"

"The purpose of travelling, my dear," said Mr. Copley, still rubbing his hands – it must have been with satisfaction, for it could not have been with cold – "the purpose of travel is – to get over the ground."

"It wasn't my purpose when I went away."

"No – but when you came back."

"It wasn't my purpose anyway," said Mrs. Copley. "I should never stir from my place if I had to move the way you have kept me moving. My head is in a whirl."

"I'll take hold and turn it round the other way."

"I think it is quite likely you will! I should like to know what you mean to do with us, now you have got us here."

"Keep you here."

"What are you going to do with yourself, Mr. Copley?"

"There are always so many uses that I can make of myself, more than I have time for, that I cannot tell which I shall take hold of first."

With which utterance he quitted the room, almost before it was fairly out of his mouth. The two left behind sat and looked at the room, and then at each other.

"What are we going to do now, Dolly?" Mrs. Copley asked in evidently dismayed uncertainty.

"I don't know, mother."

"How long do you suppose your father will be contented to stay in this house?"

"I have no means of guessing, mother. I don't know why we are here at all."

"We had to go somewhere, I suppose, when we came to London – just for the first; but I can't stay here, Dolly!"

"Of course not, mother."

"Then where are we going to? It is all very well to say 'of course not;' but where can we go, Dolly?"

"I have been thinking about it, mother, dear, but I have not found out yet. If we knew how long father wanted to stay in London" —

"It is no use asking that. I can tell you beforehand. He don't know himself. But it is my belief he'll find something or other to make him want to stay here the rest of his life."

"O mother, I hope not!"

"It is no use speaking to him about it, Dolly. Even if he knew, he would not own it, but that's my belief; and I can't bear London, Dolly. A very few days of this noise and darkness would just put me back where I was before we went away. I know it would."

"This is a darker day than common; they are not all so."

"They are all like gloom itself, compared to where we have been. I tell you, Dolly, I cannot stand it. After Sorrento, I cannot bear this."

"It's my belief, mother, you want home and Roxbury air. Why don't you represent that to father, forcibly?"

"Dolly, I never put myself in the way of your father's pleasure. He must take his pleasure; and he likes London. How he can, I don't see; but he does, and so do a great many other people; it may be a want of taste in me; I daresay it is; but I shall not put myself in the way of his pleasure. I'll stand it as long as I can, and when I cannot stand it any longer, I'll die. It will come to an end some time."

"Mother, don't talk so! We'll coax father to finish up his business and go home to Roxbury. I am quite setting my heart on it. Only you have patience a little, and don't lose courage. I'll talk to father as soon as I get a chance."

"What a dirty place this is!" was Mrs. Copley's next remark.

"Yes. It is not like the rocks and the sea. A great city must be more or less so, I suppose."

"I believe great cities are a mistake. I believe they were not meant to be built. They don't agree with me, anyway. Well, I'll lie down on that old sofa there – it's hard enough to have been one of Job's troubles – and see if I can get to sleep."

Dolly drew a soft shawl over her, and sat down to keep watch alone. The familiar London sounds were not cheering to the ears which had been so lately listening to the lap of the waves and the rustling of the myrtle branches. And the dingy though comfortable London lodging-house was a poor exchange for the bay of Sorrento and the bright rooms full of the scents of orange flowers and roses and carnations. Dolly gave way a little and felt very down-hearted. Not merely for this change of her outside world, indeed; Dolly was not so weak; only in this case the outward symbolised the inward, and gave fitting form and imagery for it. The grime and confusion of London streets, to Dolly's fancy, were like the evil ways which she saw close upon her; and as roses and myrtles, so looked a fair family life of love and right-doing. Why not? – when He, who is Love itself and Righteousness immaculate, declares of Himself, – "I am the rose of Sharon, and the lily of the valleys." I do not think those words occurred to Dolly that night, but other Bible words did, after a while. Promises of the life that shall be over all the earth one day, when the wilderness and the desert places shall be no longer desolate or barren, but shall "rejoice and blossom as the rose;" when to the Lord's people, "the sun shall no longer be their light by day, neither for brightness shall the moon give light" to them; when "sorrow and sighing shall flee away," and "the days of their mourning shall be ended." The words were like a lovely chime of bells, – or like the breath from a whole garden of roses and orange flowers, – or like the sunset light on the bay of Naples; or anything else most majestic, sweet, and fair. What if there were shadowed places to go through first? – And a region of shadow Dolly surely knew she had entered now. She longed for her father to come home; she wanted to consult with him about their arrangements, and so arrive at some certainty respecting what she had to do and expect. But Dolly knew that an early coming home was scarce to be hoped for; and she providently roused her mother at ten o'clock, and persuaded her to go to bed. Then Dolly waited alone in truth, with not even her sleeping mother's company; very sad at heart, and clutching, as a lame man does his stick, at some of the words of comfort she knew. "Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for Thou art with me." The case was not quite so bad, nor so good, with her as that; but the words were a strong staff to lean upon, nevertheless. And those others: "Because he hath set his love upon Me, therefore will I deliver him; I will set him on high, because he hath known My name. He shall call upon Me, and I will answer him; I will be with him in trouble;"… And, "There shall no evil happen to the just." Dolly stayed her heart on such words, while she waited for her father's coming. As it grew later and yet later she doubted whether she ought to wait. She was waiting however when he came, between twelve and one, but nearer the latter. She listened to his step on the stair, and knew all was not right; and when he opened the door, she saw. Her father had surely been taking wine or something; his face was flushed, his eyes were excited, and his manner was wandering.

"Dolly! – What are you here for?"

"I waited for you, father. I wanted to have a talk with you. But it's too late now," Dolly said, trembling.

"Too late – yes, of course. Go to bed. That's the thing for you. London is a great place, Dolly!"

Alas! His expression of satisfaction was echoed in her heart by an anathema. It was no time then to say anything. Dolly went to bed and cried herself to sleep, longing for that sunshiny time of which it is promised to the Lord's people – "Thy sun shall no more go down by day;" and thankful beyond all power of words to express, even then in her sorrow, that another sun had even already risen upon her, in the warm light of which no utter darkness was possible.

It was a day or two before, with her best watching, she could catch an opportunity to speak to her father. The second morning Mrs. Copley had headache and staid in bed, and Dolly and Mr. Copley were at breakfast alone.

"How long, father, do you think you may find affairs to keep you in England?" Dolly began with her father's first cup of coffee.

"As long as I like, my dear. There is no limit. In England there are always things going on to keep a man alive, and to keep him busy."

"Isn't that true in America equally?"

"I don't think so. I never found it so. Oh, there is enough to do there; but you don't find the same facilities, nor the same men to work with; and you don't know what to do with your money there when you have got it. England is the place! for a man who wants to live and to enjoy life."

"It isn't for a woman," said Dolly. "At least, not for one woman. Father, don't you know mother is longing to go home, to Roxbury?"

"Dolly, she is longing for something or other impossible, every day of her life."

"But it would do her a great deal of good to be back there."

"It would do me a great deal of harm."

There was a pause here during which Dolly meditated, and Mr. Copley buttered pieces of toast and swallowed them with ominous despatch. Dolly saw he would be soon through his breakfast at that rate.

"But, father," she began again, "are we to spend all the rest of our lives in England?"

"My dear, I don't know anything about the future. I never look ahead. The day is as much as I can see through. I advise you to follow my example."

"What are mother and I to do, then? We cannot stay permanently here, in this house."

"What's the matter with it?"

"Nothing, as a lodging-house; but mother would not thrive or be happy in a London lodging-house."

"People's happiness is in their own power. It does not depend upon place. All the clergymen will tell you so. You must talk to your mother, Dolly."

"Father, I talked to you at Sorrento; but I remember you thought you could not live there."

"That was Sorrento; but London! – London is the greatest city in the world. Every taste may be suited in London."

"You know the air does not agree with mother. She will not be well if we keep her here," said Dolly anxiously; for she saw the last piece of toast on its way.

"Nonsense! That is fancy."

"If it is fancy, it is just as good as reality. She was pining when we were here before, until we went down to Brierley; and she will lose all she has gained in her travelling if we keep her here now."

"Well – I'll see what I can do," said Mr. Copley, rising from the table. "When is St. Leger coming back?"

"How should I know? I know nothing at all of his purposes but what he told us."

"Have you thrown him over?"

"I never took him up."

"Then you are more of a goose than I thought you. He'll be caught by that fair friend of yours, before he gets out of Italy. Good morning!"

Mr. Copley hurried away; and Dolly was left to her doubts. What could so interest and hold him in a place where he had no official business, where his home was not, and he had no natural associations? Was it the attraction of mere pleasure, or was it pleasure under that mischievous, false face of gain, which men delight in and call speculation. And from speculation proper, carried on among the business haunts of men, there is not such a very wide step in the nature of things to the green level of the gaming-table. True, many men indulge in the one variety who have a horror of the other; but Dolly's father, she knew, had a horror of neither. Stocks, or dice, what did it matter? and in both varieties the men who played with him, she knew too, would help their play with wine. Against these combined powers, what was she? And what was to become of them all?

Part of the question was answered at dinner that evening. Mr. Copley announced that Brierley Cottage was unoccupied and that he had retaken it for them.

"Brierley!" cried Mrs. Copley. "Brierley! Are we going back there again! Frank, do you mean that we are to spend all our lives apart in future?"

"Not at all, my dear! If you will be so good as to stay with me, I shall be very happy."

"In London! But you know very well I cannot live in London."

"Then you can go down to Brierley."

"And how often shall you come there?"

"When the chinks of business are wide enough to let me slip through."

"Business! All you live for is business. Mr. Copley, what do you expect is to become of Dolly, shut up in a cottage down in the country?"

"How is she to get married, you mean? She expects a fairy prince to come along one of these days; and of course he could find her at Brierley as easily as anywhere. It makes no difference in a fairy tale. In fact, the unlikely places are just the ones where the princes turn up."

"You will not be serious!" sighed Mrs. Copley.

"Serious? I am nothing but serious. The regular suitor, proposed by the parents, has offered himself and been rejected; and now there is nothing to do but to wait for the fairy prince."

Poor Mrs. Copley gave it up. Her husband's words were always too quick for her.

Brierley was afterwards discussed between her and Dolly. The proposal was welcome to neither of them. Yet London would not do for Mrs. Copley; she grew impatient of it more and more. And so, within a week after their arrival, they left it and went down again to their old home in the country. It felt like going to prison, Mrs. Copley said. Though the country was still full of summer's wealth and beauty; and it was impossible not to feel the momentary delight of the change from London. The little garden was crowded with flowers, the fields all around rich in grass and grain; the great trees of the park standing in their unchanged regal beauty; the air sweet as air could be, without orange blossoms. And yet it seemed to the two ladies, when Mr. Copley left them again after taking them down to the cottage, that they were shut off and shut up in a respectable and very eligible prison, from whence escape was doubtful.

CHAPTER XXX

DOWN HILL

To do Mr. Copley justice, he left the prison very well provided and furnished. The store closet and pantry were stocked; the house put in tolerable order, and two maids were taken down. The old gardener had disappeared, but Dolly declared she would keep the flowers in order herself. So for a number of weeks things really went not ill with them at Brierley. Dolly did keep the flowers in order, and she did a great many other things; the chief of which, however, was attending to her mother. How exquisitely she did this it would take a great deal of detail to tell. It was shown, or felt rather, for a great part, in very small particulars. Not only in taking care of her mother's wardrobe and toilette, like the most skilled of waiting-maids; not only in ordering and providing her meals like the most dainty of housekeepers; not only in tireless reading aloud of papers and books, whatever could be got to interest Mrs. Copley; these were part, but besides these there were a thousand little touches a day given to Mrs. Copley's comfort, that even herself hardly took any note of. Dolly's countenance never was seen to fall in her mother's presence, nor her spirits perceived to flag. She was like the flowers with which she filled the house and dressed the table; sweet and fresh and cheery and lovely. And so ministering, and so ministered to, I cannot say that the life of the mother and daughter was other than a happy one. If Mrs. Copley was sensible of a grievous want here and there, which made her nervous and irritable whenever she thought of it, the tenderness of Dolly's soothing and the contagion of Dolly's peace were irresistible; and if Dolly had a gnawing subject of care, which hurt and pricked and stung her perpetually, a cloud of fear darkening over her, from the shadow of which she could not get free; yet the loving care to ward off both the pain and the fear from her mother, helped at least to keep her own heart fresh and strong to bear whatever was coming.

So in their little room, at their table, or about the flowers in the garden, or sitting in the honeysuckle porch reading, the mother and daughter were always together, and the days of late summer and then of autumn went by sweetly enough. And when the last roses were gone and the honeysuckle vines had ceased to send forth their breath of fragrance, and leaves turned sear, and the winds blew harsh from the sea, Dolly and Mrs. Copley made themselves all the snugger in the cottage; and knitting and reading was carried on in the glow of a good fire that filled all their little room with brightness. They were ready for winter; and winter when it came did not chill them; the household life was warm and busy. All this while they had the stir of frequent visits from Mr. Copley, and between whiles the expectation of them. They were never long; he came and went, Mrs. Copley said, like a gust of wind, with a rush and a whistle and a roar, and then was gone, leaving you to feel how still it was. However, these gusts of wind brought a great deal of refreshment. Mr. Copley always came with his hands full of papers; always had the last London or Edinburgh Quarterly, and generally some other book or books for his wife and daughter to delight themselves withal. And though Dolly was not always satisfied with her father's appearance, yet on the whole he gave her no new or increased occasion for anxiety.

So the autumn and winter went not ill away. The cottage had no visitors. It was at some distance from the village, and in the village there was hardly anybody that would have held himself entitled to visit there. The doctor was an old bachelor. The rector took no account of the two stranger ladies whom now and then his eye roved over in service time. Truly they were not often to be seen in his church, for the distance was too far for Mrs. Copley to walk, unless in exceptionally good days; when the weather and the footing and her own state of body and mind were in rare harmony over the undertaking. There was nobody else to take notice of them, and nobody did take notice of them; and in process of time it came to pass, not unnaturally, that Mrs. Copley began to get tired of living alone. For though it is extremely pleasant to be quiet, yet it remains true that man was made a social animal; and if he is in a healthy condition he craves contact with his fellows. As the winter wore away, some impression of this sort seemed to force itself upon Mrs. Copley.

"I wonder what your father is dreaming of!" she said one day, when she had sat for some time looking at Dolly, who was drawing. "He seems to think it quite natural that you should live down here at this cottage, year in and year out, like a toad in a hole; with no more life or society. We might as well be shut up in a nunnery, only then there would be more of us. I never heard of a nunnery with only two nuns."

"Are you getting tired of it, mother?"

"Tired! – that isn't the word. I think I am growing stupid, and gradually losing my wits."

"We have not been a bit stupid this winter, mother, dear."

"We haven't seen anybody."

"The family are soon coming to Brierley House, Mrs. Jersey says. I daresay you will see somebody then."

"I don't believe we shall. The English don't like strangers, I tell you, Dolly, unless they come recommended by something or other; – and there is nothing to recommend us."

Mrs. Copley uttered this last sentence with such a dismal sort of realisation, that Dolly laughed out.

"You are too modest, mother. I do not believe things are as bad as that."

"You will see," said her mother. "And I hope you will stop going to see the housekeeper then."

"I do not know why I should," said Dolly quietly.

However, this question began to occupy her; not the question of her visiting Mrs. Jersey or of any one else visiting them; but this prolonged living alone to which her mother and she seemed to be condemned. It was not good, and it was not right; and Dolly saw that it was beginning to work unfavourably upon Mrs. Copley's health and spirits. But London? and a lodging-house? That would be worse yet; and for a house to themselves in London Dolly did not believe the means were at hand.

Lately, things had been less promising. Mr. Copley seemed to be not so ready with his money; and he did not look well. Yes, he was well, he said when she asked him; nevertheless, her anxious eye read the old signs. She had not noticed them during the winter, or but slightly and rarely. Whether Mr. Copley had been making a vigorous effort to be as good as his word and spare Dolly pain; whether his sense of character had asserted itself, whether he had been so successful in speculation or play that he did not need opiates and could do without irritants; I do not know. There had been an interval. Now, Dolly began to be conscious again of the loss of freshness, the undue flush, the weak eyes, the unsteady mouth, the uneven gait. A stranger as yet might have passed it all by without notice; Dolly knew the change from her father's former quick, confident movements, iron nerves and muscular activity. And what was almost worse than all to her, among indications of his being entered on a downward course, she noticed that now he avoided her eye; looked at her, but preferred not meeting her look. I cannot tell how dreadful this was to Dolly. She had been always accustomed, until lately, to respect her father and to see him respected; to look at him as holding his place among men with much more than the average of influence and power; he was apt to do what he wished to do, and also to make other men do it. He was recognised as a leader in all parties and plans in which he took any share; Mr. Copley's word was quoted and Mr. Copley's lead was followed; and as is the case with all such men, his confidence in himself had been one of his sources of power and means of success. Dolly had been all her life accustomed to this as the natural and normal condition of things. Now she saw that her father had ceased to respect himself. The agony this revelation brought to Mr. Copley's loyal little daughter, it is impossible to tell. She felt it almost unbearable, shrank from it, would have closed her eyes to it; but Dolly was one of those whose vision is not clouded but rather made more keen by affection; and she failed to see nothing that was before her.