END OF SCHOOL TERM.
Dolly's school life is not further of importance in this history; or no
further than may serve to fill out the picture already given of
herself. A few smooth and uneventful years followed that first coming
to Philadelphia; not therefore unfruitful because uneventful; perhaps
the very contrary. The little girl made her way among her fellow pupils
and the teachers, the masters and mistresses, the studies and drills
which busied them all, with a kind of sweet facility; such as is born
everywhere, I suppose, of good will. Whoever got into scrapes, it was
never Dolly Copley; whoever was chidden for imperfect recitations, such
rebukes never fell on her; whoever might be suspected of mischief, such
suspicion could not rest for a moment on the fair, frank little face
and those grave brown eyes. The most unpopular mistress had a friend in
Dolly; the most refractory school-girl owned to a certain influence
which went forth from her; the most uncomfortable of her companions
found soothing in her presence. People who are happy themselves can
drop a good deal of oil on the creaking machinery around them, and love
is the only manufactory where the oil is made.
With all this smooth going, it may be supposed that Dolly's progress in
knowledge and accomplishments would be at least satisfactory; and it
was more than that. She prospered in all she undertook. The teacher of
mathematics said she had a good head for calculation; the French
mistress declared nature had given her a good ear and accent; the
dancing master found her agile and graceful as a young roe; the drawing
master went beyond all these and averred that Miss Copley would
distinguish him and herself. "She has an excellent manner of handling,
madame," he said,--"and she has an eye for colour, and she will have a
style that will be distinguished." Moreover, Dolly's voice was sweet
and touching, and promised to be very effective.
So things went on at school; and at home each day bound faster the
loving ties which united her with her kind protectors and relations.
Every week grew and deepened the pleasure of the intercourse they held
together. Those were happy years for all parties. Dolly had become
rather more talkative, without being less of a bookworm. Vacations were
sometimes spent with her mother and father, though not always, as the
latter were sometimes travelling. Dolly missed nothing; Mrs.
Eberstein's house had come to be a second home.
All this while the "Achilles" had never been heard of again in the
neighbourhood of Philadelphia. Neither, though Dolly I am bound to say
searched faithfully all the lists of ship's officers which were
reported in any American ports, did she ever so much as see the name of
A. Crowninshield. She always looked for it, wherever a chance of
finding it might be; she never found it.
Such was the course of things, until Dolly had reached her seventeenth
year and was half through it. Then, in the spring, long before school
term ended, came a sudden summons for her. Mr. Copley had received the
appointment of a consulship in London; he and his family were about to
transfer themselves immediately to this new sphere of activity, and
Dolly of course must go along. Her books were hastily fetched from
school, her clothes packed up; and Dolly and her kind friends in Walnut
Street sat together the last evening in a very subdued frame of mind.
"I don't see what your father wanted of a consulship, or anything else
that would take him out of his country!" Mr. Eberstein uttered his
rather grumbling complaint. "He has enough to satisfy a man without
that."
"But what papa likes is precisely something to take him out of the
country. He likes change"--said Dolly sorrowfully.
"He won't have much change as American Consul in London," Mr. Eberstein
returned. "Business will pin him pretty close."
"I suppose it will be a change at first," said Dolly; "and then, when
he gets tired of it, he will give it up, and take something else."
"And you, little Dolly, you are accordingly to be shoved out into the
great, great world, long before you are ready for it."
"Is the world any bigger over there than it is on this side?" said
Dolly, with a gleam of fun.
"Well, yes," said Mr. Eberstein. "Most people think so. And London _is_
a good deal bigger than Philadelphia."
"The world is very much alike all over," remarked Mrs. Eberstein; "in
one place a little more fascinating and dangerous, in another a little
less."
"Will it be more or less, over there, for me, Aunt Harry?"
"It would be 'more' for you anywhere, Dolly, soon. Why you are between
sixteen and seventeen; almost a woman!" Mrs. Eberstein said with a sigh.
"No, not yet, Aunt Harry. I'll be a girl yet awhile. I can be that in
England, can't I, as well as here?"
"Better," said Mr. Eberstein.
"But the world, nevertheless, _is_ a little bigger out there, Ned," his
wife added.
"In what way, Aunt Harry? And what do you mean by the 'world' anyhow?"
"I mean what the Lord was speaking of, when He said to His disciples,
'If ye were of the world, the world would love his own; but because ye
are not of the world, but I have chosen you out of the world, therefore
the world hateth you.'"
"That means, bad people?"
"Some of them are by no means bad people. Some of them are delightful
people."
"Then I do not quite understand, Aunt Harry. I thought it meant not
only _bad_ people, but gay people; pleasure lovers."
"Aren't you a lover of pleasure, Dolly?"
"Oh yes. But, Aunt Harry," Dolly said seriously, "I am _not_ a 'lover
of pleasure more than a lover of God.'"
"No, thanks to His goodness! However, Dolly, people may be just as
worldly without seeking pleasures at all. It isn't that."
"What is it, then?"
"I don't know how to put it. Ned, can you?"
"Why, Hal," said Mr. Eberstein pondering, "it comes to about this, I
reckon. There are just two kingdoms in the world, upon earth I mean."
"Yes. Well? I know there are two kingdoms, and no neutral ground. But
what is the dividing line? That is what we want to know."
"If there is no neutral ground, it follows that the border line of one
kingdom is the border line of the other. To go out of one, is to go
into the other."
"Well? Yes. That's plain."
"Then it is simple enough. What belongs to Christ, or what is done for
Him or in His service, belongs to His kingdom. Of course, what is _not_
Christ's, nor is done for Him, nor in His service, belongs to the
world."
There was a silence here of some duration; and then Dolly exclaimed, "I
see it. I shall know now."
"What, Dolly?"
"How to do, Aunt Harry."
"How to do what?"
"Everything. I was thinking particularly just then"--Dolly hesitated.
"Yes, of what?"
"Of dressing myself."
"Dressing yourself, you chicken?"
"Yes, Aunt Harry. I see it. If I do not dress for Christ, I do it for
the world."
"Don't go into another extreme now, Dolly."
"No, Aunt Harry. I cannot be wrong, can I, if I do it for Christ?"
"I wonder how many girls of sixteen in the country have such a thought?
And I wonder, how long will you be able to keep it, Dolly?"
"Why not, Aunt Harry?"
"O child! because you have got to meet the world."
"What will the world do to me?" Dolly asked, half laughing in her
simple ignorance.
"When I think what it will do to you, Dolly, I am ready to break my
heart. It will tempt you, child. It will tempt you with beauty, and
with pleasant things; pleasant things that look so harmless! and it
will seek to persuade you with sweet voices and with voices of
authority; and it will show you everybody going one way, and that not
your way."
"But I will follow Christ, Aunt Hal."
"Then you will have to bear reproach."
"I would rather bear the world's reproach, than His."
"If you don't get over-persuaded, child, or deafened with the voices!"
"She will have to do like the little girl in the fairy tale," said Mr.
Eberstein; "stuff cotton in her ears. The little girl in the fairy tale
was going up a hill to get something at the top--what _was_ she going
for, that was at the top of the hill?"
"I know!" cried Dolly. "I remember. She was going for three things. The
Singing bird and the Golden water, and--I forget what the third thing
was."
"Well, you see what that means," Mr. Eberstein went on. "She was going
up the hill for the Golden water at the top; and there were ten
thousand voices in her ears tempting her to look round; and if she
looked, she would be turned to stone. The road was lined with stones,
which had once been pilgrims. You see, Dolly? Her only way was to stop
her ears."
"I see, Uncle Ned."
"What shall Dolly stop her ears with?" asked Mrs. Eberstein.
"These words will do. 'Whether ye eat, or drink, or whatsoever ye do,
do all to the glory of God.'"
There was little more talking, for as the evening drew on, the
heaviness of the parting weighed too hard upon all hearts. The next day
Dolly made the journey to Boston, and from there to her parents' house;
and her childhood's days were over.