BRIERLEY COTTAGE.
A few months later than this, it happened one day that Mr. Copley was
surprised in his office by a visit from young St. Leger. Mr. Copley was
sitting at a table in his own private room. It was not what you would
call a very comfortable room; rather bare and desolate looking; a
carpet and some chairs and desks and a table being the only furniture.
The table was heaped up with papers, and desks and floor alike
testified to an amount of heterogeneous business. Busy the Consul
undoubtedly was, writing and studying; nevertheless, he welcomed his
visitor. The young man came in like an inhabitant of another world, as
he was; in spotlessly neat attire, leisurely manner, and with his blue
eyes sleepily nonchalant at the sight of all the stir of all the world.
But they smiled at Mr. Copley.
"You seem to have your bands full," he remarked.
"Rather. Don't I? Awfully! Secretary taken sick--confoundedly
inconvenient." Mr. Copley went on writing as he spoke.
"There are plenty of secretaries to be had."
"Yes, but I haven't got hold of 'em yet. What brings you here,
Lawrence? Not business, I suppose?"
"Not business with the American Consul."
"No. I made out so much by myself. What is it? I see all's right with
you, by your face."
"Thank you. Quite so. But you can't attend to me just now."
"Go ahead," said Mr. Copley, whose pen did not cease to scribble. "I
can hear. No time for anything like the present minute. I've got _this_
case by heart, and don't need to think about it. Go on, Lawrence. Has
your father sent you to me?"
"No."
"Sit down, and tell me what I can do for you."
Mr. St. Leger sat down, but did not immediately comply with the rest of
the invitation. He rested his elbow on the table, looked at Mr.
Copley's pen for a few minutes, and said nothing; until Mr. Copley
again glanced up at his face.
"I do not know that you can do anything for me," said the young man
then; "only you can perhaps answer a question or two. Mr. Copley, would
you like to have me for a son-in-law?"
"No," said the Consul shortly; "nor any other man. I'd as lieve have
you as anybody, Lawrence."
"Thank you. I couldn't expect more. But you must allow somebody in that
capacity, Mr. Copley."
"Must I? Depends on how much Dolly likes somebody."
"That is just what I want to find out about myself," said the young man
eagerly. "Then you would not put any hindrance?"
"In the way of Dolly's happiness? Not if I know it. But _that's_ got to
be proved."
"You know, Mr. Copley, she would be happy with me."
"How do I know that? I know nothing of the kind. It all depends on
Dolly, I tell you. What does she think about it?"
"That's just what I don't know and cannot find out. I have no chance. I
cannot get sight of her."
"Her mother's sick, you see. It keeps Dolly at home."
"My mother has proposed several times to take Miss Copley out with her,
and she will not go."
"She's very kind, and we are grateful; but Dolly won't leave her
mother."
"So she says. Then how am I to see her, Mr. Copley? I can't expect her
to like me if I never see her."
"I don't know, my boy. Wait till better times."
"Wait" is a word that lovers never want to hear; and Lawrence sat
discontentedly watching the play of Mr. Copley's pen.
"You know it would be all right about the money," he said at length.
"Yes, yes; between your father and her father, I guess we could make it
comfortable for you two. But the thing is all the while, what Dolly
thinks of you."
"And how am I to find that out?"
"Can't tell, I declare. Unless you volunteer to become my secretary."
"Does your secretary live in your family?"
"Of course he does. One of us completely."
"Will you take me, Mr. Copley?"
"Yes, but you would never take the drudgery. It is not in your line."
"Try me," said the young man. "I'll take it at once. Will you have me,
Mr. Copley? But _she_ must not know what you take me for. I don't care
for the drudgery. Will you let me come? On trial?"
"Why is the boy in earnest? This is Jacob and Rachel over again!"
"Not for seven years, I hope."
"No, I shall not stay in this old crib as long as that. The question
will have to be decided sooner. We haven't so much time to spare as
those old patriarchs. But Dolly must have time to make up her mind, if
it takes seven years. She is a queer little piece, and usually has a
mind of her own. About this affair she certainly will. I'll give Mrs.
Copley a hint to keep quiet, and Dolly will never suspect anything."
Lawrence was so thoroughly in earnest that he insisted on going to work
at once. And the next day he was introduced at the house and made at
home there.
It was quite true that Mrs. Copley was unwell; the doctors were not yet
agreed as to the cause. She was feeble and nervous and feverish, and
Dolly's time was wholly devoted to her. In these circumstances St.
Leger's coming into the family made a very pleasant change. Dolly
wondered a little that the rich banker's son should care to do business
in the American Consul's office; but she troubled her head little about
it. What he did in the office was out of her sphere; at home, in the
family, he was a great improvement on the former secretary. Mr. Barr,
his predecessor, had been an awkward, angular, taciturn fourth person
in the house; a machine of the pen; nothing more. Mr. St. Leger brought
quite a new life into the family circle. It is true, he was himself no
great talker; but his blue eyes were eloquent. They were beautiful
eyes; and they spoke of kindness of heart, gentleness of disposition,
and undoubted liking for his present companions. There was refinement
too, and the habit of the world, and the power of comprehending at
least what others spoke; and gentle as he was, there was also now and
then a gleam which showed some fire and some persistent self-will; that
amount of backbone without which a man's agreeable qualities go for
nothing with women. It was pleasant, his respectful attention to Mrs.
Copley; it was pleasant too the assistance he was to Mr. Copley's
monologues; if he did not say a great deal himself, his blue eyes gave
intelligent heed, and he could also now and then say a word in the
right place. With Dolly he took very soon the familiar habit of a
brother. She liked him, she liked to pour out his coffee for him, it
amused her to hear her father talk to him, she was grateful for his
kindness to her mother; and before long the words exchanged between
themselves came in the easy, enjoyable tone of a thorough good
understanding. I don't know but St. Leger would have liked a little
more shyness on her part. Dolly was not given to shyness in any
company; and as to being shy with him, she would as soon have thought
of being on terms of ceremony with Berdan, the great hound that her
father was so proud of. And poor St. Leger was more hopelessly in love
every day. Dolly was so fresh and cool and sweet, as she came down to
breakfast in her white wrapper; she was so despairingly careless and
free; and at evening, dressed for dinner, she was so quiet and simple
and graceful; it was another thing, he said to himself, seeing a girl
in this way, from dancing with her in a cloud of lace and flowers in a
crowded room, and talking conventional nothings. Now, on the contrary,
he was always admiring Dolly's practical business ways; the quick eye
and capable hand; the efficient attention she bestowed on the affairs
of the household and gave to her father's and mother's comfort, and
also not less to his own. And she was quaint; she moved curiosity. With
all her beauty, she never seemed to think of her looks; and with all
her spirit and sense, she never seemed to talk but when she had
something to say; while yet, if anything in the conversation deserved
it, it was worth while to catch the sparkle of Dolly's eye and see her
face dimple. Nevertheless, she would often sit for a long time silent
at the table, when others were talking, and remind nobody voluntarily
of her presence.
Spring had come now, and London was filling; and Lawrence was hoping
for some gaieties that would draw Dolly out into society,
notwithstanding his secret confession about ball rooms. He wanted to
see how she would bear the great world, how she would meet it; but
still more he hoped to have some chance to make himself of importance
to her. And then the doctors decided that Mrs. Copley must go into the
country.
What was to be done? Mr. Copley could not quit London without giving up
his office. To any distance Mrs. Copley could not go without him. The
dilemma, which Lawrence at first had heard of with dismay, turned for
his advantage; or he hoped so. His father owned a cottage in a pretty
part of the country, not a great many miles from London, which cottage
just then was untenanted. Mr. Copley could run down there any day (so
could he); and Mrs. Copley would be in excellent air, with beautiful
surroundings. This plan was agreed to, and Lawrence hurried away to
make the needful arrangements with his father and at the cottage.
"Oh dear!" said Mrs. Copley, when all this was communicated to
her,--"why can't we go home?"
"Father is not ready for that, mother," Dolly said somewhat sadly.
"Where is this place you are talking of?"
"Down in Berkshire. Mr. St. Leger says you will be sure to like it."
"Mr. St. Leger doesn't know everything. Is the house furnished?"
"I believe so. Oh, I hope it will be very pleasant, mother dear. It's a
pretty place; and they say it will be very good for you."
"Who says so?"
"The doctors"
"_They_ don't know everything, either. I tell you what I believe would
do me good, Dolly, only your father never wants what I want, unless he
wants it at a different time; I should like to go travelling."
"Travelling!--Where?" Dolly exclaimed and inquired.
"Anywhere. I want a change. I am so tired of London, I could die! I
have swallowed dust and fog enough to kill me. I should like to go
where there is no dust. That would be a change. I should like to go to
Venice."
"Venice! So should I," said Dolly in a changed tone. "Well, mother,
we'll go down first to this cottage in the country--they say it's
delightful there;--and then, if it does you good, you'll be well
enough, and we will coax father to take us to Italy."
"I don't care about Italy. I only want to be quiet in Venice, where
there are no carts or omnibusses. I don't believe this cottage will do
me one bit of good."
"Mother, I guess it will. At any rate, I suppose we must try."
"I wish your father could have been contented at home, when he was well
off. It's very unlucky he ever brought us here. I don't see what is to
become of you, for my part."
Dolly suppressed a sigh at this point.
"You know what the Bible says, mother. 'All things shall work together
for good, to them that love God.'"
"I don't want to hear that sort of talk, Dolly."
"Why not, mother?"
"It don't mean anything. I would rather have people show their religion
in their lives, than hear them talk about it."
"But, mother, isn't there comfort in those words?"
"No. It ain't true."
"O mother! _What_ isn't true?"
"That. There is a difference between things, and there is no use trying
to make out they're all alike. Sour isn't sweet, and hard ain't soft.
What's the use of talking as if it was? I always like to look at things
just as they are."
"But, mother!"--
"Now, don't talk, Dolly, but just tell me. What is the good of my
getting sick just now? just now, when you ought to be going into
company? And we have got to give up our house, and you and I go and
bury ourselves down in some out-of-the-way place, and your father get
along as he can; and how we shall get along without him to manage, I am
sure I don't know."
"He will run down to see us often, mother."
"The master's eye wants to be all the while on the spot, if anything is
to keep straight."
"But this is such a little spot; I think my eye can manage it."
"Then how are you going to take care of me?--if you are overseeing the
place. And I don't believe my nerves are going to stand it, all alone
down there. It'll be lonely. I'd rather hear the carts rattle. It's
dreadful, to hear nothing."
"Well, we will try how it goes, mother; and if it does not go well, we
will try somewhere else."
The house in town was given up, and Mr. Copley moved into lodgings.
Some furniture and two servants were sent down to the cottage; but the
very day when the ladies were to follow, Mr. Copley was taken
possession of by some really important business. The secretary
volunteered to supply his place; and in his company Mrs. Copley and
Dolly made the little journey, one warm summer day.
Dolly had her own causes for anxiety, the weightier that they must be
kept to herself. Nevertheless, the influence of sweet nature could not
be withstood. The change from city streets and crowds to the green
leafiness of June in the country, the quiet of unpaved roads, the
deliciousness of the air full of scents from woodland and field,
excited Dolly like champagne. Every nerve thrilled with delight; her
eyes could not get enough, nor her lungs. And when they arrived at the
cottage, Brierley Cottage it was called, she was filled with a glad
surprise. It was no common, close, musty, uncomfortable little
dwelling; but a roomy old house with plenty of space, dark oak
wainscotings, casement windows with little diamond panes, and a wide
porch covered with climbing roses and honeysuckle. These were in
blossom now, and the air was perfumed with their incomparable
sweetness. Round the house lay a small garden ground, which having been
some time without care looked pretty wild.
Dolly uttered her delight as the party entered the porch. Mrs. Copley
passed on silently, looking at everything with critical eyes.
"What a charming old house, mother! so airy and so old-fashioned, and
_everything_ so nice."
"I am afraid there is not much furniture in it," remarked the secretary.
"We don't want much, for two people," said Dolly gaily.
"But when your father brings a dinner party down," said Mrs. Copley;
"how does he suppose we shall manage then? You must have chairs for
people to sit on."
Dolly did not answer; it had struck her that her father had no
intention of bringing dinner parties down, and that he had made his
arrangements with an evident exclusion of any such idea. He had thought
two women servants enough. For the rest, leaving parties out of
consideration, the house had a rambling supply of old furniture,
suiting it well enough; it looked pretty, and quaint, and cool; and
Dolly for her part was well content.
They went over the place, taking a general survey; and then Mrs. Copley
lay down on a lounge while supper was getting ready, and Dolly and Mr.
St. Leger went out to the porch. Here, beyond the roses and
honeysuckles, the eye found first the wild garden or pleasure ground.
There was not much of it, and it was a mere tangle of what had once
been pretty and sweet. It sloped, however, down to a little stream
which formed the border of the property; and on the other side of this
stream the ground rose in a grassy bank, set with most magnificent oaks
and beeches. A little foot-bridge spanned the stream and made a
picturesque point in the view, as a bridge always does. The sun was
setting, throwing his light upon that grassy bank and playing in the
branches of the great oaks and beeches. Dolly stood quite still, with
her hands crossed upon her bosom, looking.
"The garden has had nothing done to it," said St. Leger. "That won't
do. It's quite distressing."
"I suppose father never thought of engaging a gardener," said Dolly.
"We have gardeners to spare, I am sure, at home. I'll send over one to
train those vines and put things in some shape. You'd find him useful,
too, about the house. I'll send old Peters; he can come as well as not."
"Oh, thank you! But I don't know whether father would choose to afford
a gardener," said Dolly low.
"He shall not afford it. I want him to come for my own comfort. You do
not think I want your father to pay my gardener."
"You are very kind. What ground is that over there?"
"That? that is Brierley Park. It is a great place. The stream divides
the park from this cottage ground."
"Can one go over the bridge?"
"Of course. The place is left to itself; nobody is at the house now."
"Why not?"
"I suppose they like some other place better," said St. Leger,
shrugging his shoulders. "You would like to go and see the house and
the pictures. The next time I come down I'll take you there."
"Oh, thank you! And may I go over among those grand trees? may I walk
there?"
"Walk there, or ride there; you may do what you like; nobody will
hinder you. If you meet anybody that has a right to know, you can tell
him who you are. But don't go to the house till I come to go with you."
"You are very good, Mr. St. Leger," said Dolly gratefully. But then, as
if shy of what he might next say, she turned and went in to her mother.
Dolly always kept Mr. St. Leger at a certain fine, insensible distance.
He seemed to be very near; he was really very much at home in the
family; nevertheless, an atmospheric wall, felt but not seen, divided
him from Dolly. It was so invisible that it was unmanageable; it kept
him at a distance.