DIFFICULTIES.
Dolly on her part had not much comfort in the review of this afternoon.
"It was no good," she said to herself; "I am afraid it has encouraged
Lawrence St. Leger in nonsense. I did not mean that, but I am afraid he
took it for encouragement. So much for going walking Sunday. I'll never
do it again."
Lawrence had taken leave very cheerfully; that was certain. As much
could not be said for his principal. Dolly had privately asked her
father to send her down the money for the servants' wages; and Mr.
Copley had given an offhand promise; but Dolly saw that same want of
the usual ready ease in his manner, and was not surprised when days
passed and the money did not come. The question recurred, what was she
to do? She wrote to remind her father; and she took a fixed resolve
that she would buy no more, of anything, that she could not on the spot
pay for. This, however, was not a resolve immediately taken; it ensued
when after several weeks the women again pressed for their money, and
again in vain. Dolly started back then from the precipice she saw she
might be nearing, and determined to owe no more debts. She wrote to her
father once more, begging for a supply. And a supply came; but so
meagre that Dolly could but partially pay her two servants and keep a
little in hand to go to market with. Mr. Copley had not come down to
Brierley in the meanwhile. Lawrence had.
Her unaccustomed burden of care Dolly had kept to herself; therefore it
startled her when one day her mother began upon the subject.
"What's this about Margaret's wages, Dolly?"
"She asked me for some money the other day," Dolly answered as easily
as she could.
"You didn't give it to her?"
"I have given her part; I had not the whole."
"Haven't you _any?_"
"Yes, mother, but not enough to give Margaret all she wants."
"Let her have what you've got, and write your father to send you some.
I never like to keep servants waiting. What's theirs, isn't yours; and
besides, they never serve you so well, and you're in their power."
"Mother, I want to keep a little in the house, for every day calls,
till I get some more."
"Your father will send it immediately. Why he don't come himself, I
don't see. _I_'m not gaining, all alone in this wilderness, with
nothing but the trees of Brierley Park to look at. I can't think what
your father is dreaming about!"
Dolly was silent, and hoped the subject had blown over. Yet it could
not blow over for ever, she reflected. What was she to do? Then her
mother startled her again.
"Dolly have you told your father that you want money?"
Dolly hesitated; had to say yes.
"And he did not give it to you?"
"Yes, mother; he sent me some."
"When?"
"It was--it must have been three weeks ago."
"How much?"
"Not enough to pay all that is due to Margaret."
Mrs. Copley laid down her face in her hands. A terrible pain went
through Dolly's heart; but what could she say. It seemed as if pain
pricked her like a shower of arrows, first on this side and then on
that. She thought her mother _had_ gained somewhat in the past weeks;
how would it, or could it, be now? Presently Mrs. Copley lifted up her
head with a further question.
"Is Sarah paid?"
"No, mother; not yet," said poor Dolly.
"Has Peter been paid anything?"
"Not by us. We do not pay Peter at all," replied Dolly, feeling as if
the words were stabbing her.
"Who does?" said her mother quickly.
"Mr. St. Leger sent him here. He is their servant really, and they take
care of him."
"I don't see how your father can content himself with that," said Mrs.
Copley. "But I suppose that is one of the debts that _you_ will pay,
Dolly."
Dolly forced herself to speak very quietly, though every nerve and
fibre was trembling and quivering. She said, "How, mother?"
"I suppose you know. Mr. St. Leger knows, at any rate; and your father
too, it seems."
"Mother," said Dolly, sitting up a little straighter, "do you think I
will pay debts in _that_ way?"
"What other way will you pay them, then, child? what do you and your
father expect? What _can_ you do, if you have not the money?" Mrs.
Copley spoke bitterly. Dolly waited a little, perhaps to bite down or
swallow down some feeling.
"Mother," she said, somewhat lower, "do you think father would want me
to pay his debts so?"
"Want to?" echoed Mrs. Copley. "I tell you, Dolly, when people get into
difficulties the question is not what they _want_ to do. They have to
pocket their likings, and eat humble pie. But how has your father got
into difficulties?" she burst out with an expression of frightened
distress. "He always had plenty. Dolly!--tell me!--what do you know
about it? what is it? How _could_ he get into difficulties! Oh, if we
had staid at home! Dolly, how is it possible? We have always had
plenty--money running like water--all my life; and now, how _could_
your father have got into difficulties?"
Perhaps the difficulty was but transient and would soon pass over,
Dolly faintly suggested.
"It don't look like it," said Mrs. Copley miserably, "and your father
don't look like it. Here we are down in this desert, you and I, to keep
us out of the way, and where we will cost as near nothing as can be;
and we can't pay that! Do you know nothing about it, Dolly? how it has
come about?"
"I couldn't ask father such a question, mother, you know."
"And what is to become of me!" Mrs. Copley went on; "when travelling is
the thing I need. And what is to become of you, Dolly? Nobody to be
seen, or to see you, but St. Leger. Have you made up your mind to be
content with him? Will you have him, Dolly? and is that the way your
father is going to take care of you?"
Poor Mrs. Copley, having so long swallowed her troubles in secret,
dreading to give pain to Dolly, now that her mouth was once opened
poured them forth relentlessly. Why not? the subject was broached at
last, and having spoken, she might go on to speak. And poor Dolly, full
of her own anxieties, did not know where to begin to quiet those of her
mother.
"Mr. St. Leger is nothing to me," she said, however, in answer to Mrs.
Copley's last suggestions.
"He thinks he is."
"Then he is very foolish," said Dolly, reddening.
"It is you that are foolish, and you just do not know any better. I
don't think, Dolly, that it would be at all a bad thing for
you;--perhaps it would be the very best; though I'd rather have you
marry one of our own people; but St. Leger is rich, very rich, I
suppose; and your father has got mixed up with them somehow, and I
suppose that would settle everything. St. Leger is handsome, too; he
has a nice face; he has beautiful eyes; and he is a gentleman."
"His face wants strength."
"That's no matter. I begin to believe, Dolly, that you have wit enough
for two."
"I am not speaking of wit; I mean _strength;_ and I should never like
any man that hadn't it; not like him in the way you mean, mother."
"Strength? what sort of strength?"
"I mean manliness; power to do right; power over himself and others;
power over the wrong, to put it down, and over the right, to lift it up
and give it play. I don't know that I can tell you what I mean, mother;
but that is my notion of a man."
"You are romantic, I am afraid, Dolly. You have been reading novels too
much."
"What novels, mother? I have not read any, except Scott's and Miss
Austen's and 'The Scottish Chiefs.'"
"Well, you have got romantic ideas, I am afraid. Your talk sounds
romantic. You won't find that sort of man."
"I don't care," said Dolly. "But if I don't, I'll never marry any other
sort."
"And that is a delusion too," said Mrs. Copley. "You will do just as
other girls do. Nobody marries her fancy. And besides, St. Leger thinks
he has got you; and I don't know but he and your father will manage it
so. He don't ask _my_ advice."
Now this was not quite true; for the subject of Mr. St. Leger had been
discussed more than once between Dolly's parents; though certainly Mrs.
Copley did see that matters were out of her hand and beyond her
guidance now. Dolly was glad to have the conversation turn to something
else; but the several subjects of it hardly left her head any more.
It is blessedly true, that at seventeen there is a powerful spring of
elasticity in the mind, and an inexhaustible treasury of hope; also it
is true that Mrs. Copley was not wrong in her estimate of Dolly when
she adjudged her to have plenty of "wit;" otherwise speaking, resources
and acuteness. That was all true; nevertheless, Dolly's
seventeen-year-old heart and head were greatly burdened with what they
had to carry just now. Experience gave her no help, and the
circumstances forbade her to depend upon the experience of her mother.
Mrs. Copley's nerves must not be excited. So Dolly carried her burden
alone, and found it very heavy; and debated her questions with herself,
and could find an answer to never a one of them. How should she give
her mother the rest and distraction of travelling? The doctor said, and
Dolly believed, that it would be the best thing for her. But she could
not even get speech of her father to consult over the matter with him
Mr. Copley was caught in embarrassments of his own, worse than nervous
ones. What could Dolly do, to break him off from his present habits,
those she knew and those she dimly feared? Then when, as was
inevitable, the image of Mr. St. Leger presented itself, as affording
the readiest solution of all these problems, Dolly bounded back. Not
_that_, of all possible outcomes of the present state of things. Dolly
would neither be bought nor sold; would not in that way even be her
parents' deliverer. She was sure she could not do that. What else could
she do?
She carried these questions about with her, out into the garden, and up
into her room; and many a hot tear she shed over them, when she could
be long enough away from her mother to let the tears dry and the signs
of them disappear before she met Mrs. Copley's eyes again. To her eyes
Dolly was unfailingly bright and merry; a most sweet companion and most
entertaining society; lively, talkative, and busy with endless plans
for her mother's amusement. Meanwhile she wrote to her father, begging
him to come down to Brierley; she said she wanted to talk to him.
Three days after that letter came Lawrence St. Leger. Mr. Copley could
not spare the time, he reported.
"Spare the time from what?" Dolly asked.
"Oh, business, of course. It is always business."
"What sort? Not consul business."
"All sorts," said Lawrence. "He couldn't come. So he sent me. What is
the thing, Miss Dolly? He said something was up."
"I wanted to talk to my father," Dolly said coldly.
"Won't I do?"
"Not at all. I had business to discuss."
"The journey, eh?"
"That was one thing," Dolly was obliged to allow.
"Well, look here. About that, I've a plan. I think I can arrange it
with Mr. Copley, if you and your mother would be willing to set off
with me, and let Mr. Copley join us somewhere--say at Baden Baden, or
Venice, or where you like. He could come as soon as he was ready, you
know."
"But you know," said Dolly quietly, "I specially want _him_, himself."
"But then your mother wants the journey. She really does. The doctor
says so, you know, and I think he's right. And Mr. Copley won't leave
London just now. He could send his secretary, you know. That's all
right."
"I must see father before I can do anything," said Dolly evasively. "I
will write a letter for you to carry back to him. And I will go do it
at once."
"And I will take a look at what Peter is doing," said the young man.
"Such fellows always want looking after."
Dolly had looked after Peter herself. She paused before an upper window
in her way to her room, to cast a glance down into the garden. Old
Peter was there, at some work she had set him; and before him stood
Lawrence, watching him, and she supposed making remarks; but at any
rate, his air was the air of a master and of one very much at home.
Dolly saw it, read it, stood still to read it, and turned from the
window with her heart too full of vexation and perturbation to write
her letter then. She felt a longing for somebody to talk to, even
though she could by no means lay open all her case for counsel; the air
of the house was too close for her; her breath could not be drawn free
in that neighbourhood. She must see somebody; and no one had poor Dolly
to go to but the housekeeper, Mrs. Jersey. Nobody, near or far. So she
slipped out of the house and took a roundabout way to the great
mansion. She dared not take a straight way and cross the bridge, lest
she should be seen and followed; so she made a circuit, and got into
the park woods only after some time of warm walking through lanes and
over fields. Till then she had hurried; now, safe from interruption,
she went slowly, and pondered what she was going to do or say. Pondered
everything, and could not with all her thinking make the confusion less
confusion. It was a warm, still, sultry day; the turf was dry, the air
was spicy under the great trees; shadow and sunshine alternately
crossed her path, or more correctly, her path crossed them. A certain
sense of contrast smote her as she went. Around her were the tokens of
a broad security, sheltering protection, quiet and immovable
possession, careless wealth; and within her a tumult of fear,
uncertainty, exposure, and craving need. Life seemed a very unequal
thing to the little American girl. Her step became slower. What was she
going to say to Mrs. Jersey? It was impossible to determine;
nevertheless, Dolly felt that she must see her and speak to her. That
was a necessity.
Through the trees she caught at last sight of the grand old house. The
dog knew her by this time and she did not fear him. She found the
housekeeper busy with some sewing and glad to welcome her. Mrs. Jersey
was that always. To-day she looked a little closer than usual at her
visitor, discerning that Dolly's mind was not just in its wonted poise.
And besides, she loved to look at her.
Yet it is not easy to describe that for which our eyes seek and dwell
upon a face or form. It is easy to say brown eyes and lightly curled,
waving, beautiful hair; but hair is beautiful in different ways, and so
faces. Can we put Dolly's charm into words? Mrs. Jersey saw a delicate,
graceful, active figure, to begin with; delicate without any suspicion
of weakness; active, in little quick, gracious movements, which it was
fascinating to watch; and when not in motion, lovely in its childlike
unconsciousness of repose. Her hair was exceedingly beautiful, not on
account of its mass or colour so much as for the great elegance of its
growth and curly arrangement or disarrangement around the face and
neck; and the face was a blending of womanly and childlike. It could
seem by turns most of the one or most of the other; but the clear eyes
had at all times a certain deep _inwardness_, along with their bright,
intelligent answer to the moment's impression, and also a certain
innocent outlook, which was very captivating. And then, at a moment's
notice, Dolly's face from being grave and thoughtful, would dimple all
up with some flash of fun, and make you watch its change back to
gravity again, with an intensified sense both of its merry and of its
serious charm. She smiled at Mrs. Jersey now as she came in, but the
housekeeper saw that the eyes had more care in their thoughtfulness
than she was accustomed to see in them.
"And how is the mother, dear?" she asked, when Dolly had drawn up a
chair and sat down; for they were grown familiar friends by this time.
"She is not getting on much, Mrs. Jersey. I wanted to talk to you about
her. The doctor says travelling would be the best thing."
"And you will go and travel? Where will you go?"
"I don't know yet whether we can go anywhere. Mother wants to go."
Dolly looked out hard into the tree groups on the lawn. They barred the
vision.
"That is one sign then that the doctor is right," said Mrs. Jersey. "It
is good for sick folks to have what they like."
"Isn't it good for people that are not sick?"
"Sometimes," said Mrs. Jersey, smiling. "But sometimes not; or else the
good Lord would let them have it, when He does not let them. What are
_you_ wanting, Miss Dolly?"
"I want everything different from what it is just now!" said Dolly, the
tears starting to her eyes. The housekeeper was moved with a great
sympathy; sympathy that was silent at first.
"Can I help?" she asked.
"Maybe you can help with your counsel," said Dolly, brushing her hand
over her eyes; "that is what I came here for to-day. I wanted to speak
to somebody; and I have nobody but you, Mrs. Jersey."
"Your mother, my dear?"
"I can't worry mother."
"True. You are right. Well, my dear? What do you want counsel about?"
"It is very difficult to tell you. I don't know if I can. I will try.
One thing. Mrs. Jersey, is it right sometimes, is it a girl's duty
ever--to sacrifice herself for her parents?".
The housekeeper had not expected this form of dilemma, and hesitated a
few minutes.
"Sacrifice herself how, Miss Dolly?"
"Marrying, for instance."
"Marrying somebody she does not care for?"
"Yes."
"How 'for her parents'?"
"Suppose--I am just supposing,--suppose he has money, and they haven't.
Suppose, for instance, they are in difficulties, and by her sacrificing
herself she can put them out of difficulty? Such a case might be, you
know."
"Often has been; or at least people have thought so. But, Miss Dolly,
where is a young lady's first duty?"
"To God, of course; her first duty."
"And next after God?"
"To her parents, I suppose."
"And besides her parents?"
"I don't know; nobody, I think."
"Let us see. She owes something to herself."
"Does she?"
"And do you not think she owes something to the other party concerned?
don't you think she owes something to the gentleman she is to marry?"
"Yes, of course," said Dolly slowly. "I do not know exactly what,
though; nor exactly what she owes to herself."
"Before taking any course of action, in a matter that is very
important, shouldn't she look all round the subject? and see what will
become of all these duties?"
"Certainly. But the first comes first."
"The first comes first. How does the first look to you?"
"The first is her duty to God."
"Well. What does her duty to God say?"
"I don't know," said Dolly very gravely. "I am all in a puzzle.
Something in me says one thing, and something else in me cries out
against it. Mrs. Jersey, the Bible says, 'Honour thy father and thy
mother.'"
"Yes, and it says, 'Children, obey your parents.' But the next words
that come after, are--'_in the Lord_.'"
"How is that?"
"So as you can without failing in your duty to Him."
"Can duties clash?"
"No," said the housekeeper, smiling; "for, as you said, 'the first
comes first.'"
"I do not understand," said Dolly. "It is my duty to obey His word; and
His word says, obey them."
"Only not when their command or wish goes against His."
"Well, how would this?" said Dolly. "Suppose they wish me to marry
somebody, and my doing so would be very good for them? The Bible says,
'Love seeks not her own.'"
"Most true," said the housekeeper, watching the tears that suddenly
stood in Dolly's bright eyes. "But it says some other things."
"What, Mrs. Jersey? Do make it clear to me if you can. I am all in a
muddle."
"My dear, I am not a very good hand to explain what I mean. But do you
not think you owe it both to yourself and to God, not to do what would
blast your life? you cannot serve Him so well with a blasted life."
"It seems to me," said Dolly, speaking slowly, "I have a right to give
up my own happiness. I do not see the wrong of it."
"In anything else," said the housekeeper. "In anything else, my dear;
only not in marriage! My dear, it is not simply giving up one's
happiness; it is a long torture! No, you owe it to yourself; for in
that way you could never grow to be what you might be. My dear, I have
seen it tried. I have known a woman who married so, thinking that it
would not matter so much; she fulfilled life's duties nobly, she was a
good wife and mother and friend; but when I asked her once, after she
had told me her story, how life had been to her?--I shall never forget
how she turned to me and said, 'It has been a hell upon earth!' Miss
Dolly, no good father and mother would buy _anything_ at such a price;
and no man that really loved a woman would have her at such a price;
and so, if you follow the rule, 'Whatsoever ye would that men should do
to you, do ye even so to them'--you will never marry in that way."
There was a little silence, and then Dolly said in an entirely changed
tone, "You have cleared up the mist, Mrs. Jersey."
"Then there is another thing," the housekeeper went on. She heard the
change in Dolly's voice, out of which the anxiety had suddenly
vanished, but she was willing to make assurance doubly sure. "Did you
ever think what a woman owes to the man she marries?"
"I never thought about it," said Dolly. "What a man asks for, is that
she will marry him." How Dolly's cheeks flamed up. But she was very
serious, and the housekeeper if possible yet more so.
"Miss Dolly, she owes him the best love of her heart, after that she
gives to God."
"I don't see how she can," said Dolly. "I do not see how she _can_ love
him so well as her father and mother."
"He expects it, though, and has a right to it. And unless a woman can
give it, she cannot be a true wife. She makes a false vow at the altar.
And unless she do love him so, it may easily happen that she will find
somebody afterwards that she will like better than her husband. And
then, all is lost."
"After she is married?" said Dolly.
"Perhaps after she has been married for years. If she has not married
the right man, she may find him when she cannot marry him."
"But that is dreadful!" cried Dolly.
"The world is a pretty mixed-up place," said the housekeeper. "I want
_your_ way to be straight and clear, Miss Dolly."
There was a pause again, at the end of which Dolly repeated, "Thank
you, Mrs. Jersey. You have cleared up the mist for me."
"I hear it in your voice," said her friend, smiling. "It has got its
clear, sweet ring again. Is _all_ the trouble disposed of?"
"Oh no!" said Dolly, a shadow crossing her face anew; "but I am
relieved of one great perplexity. That was not all my trouble;--I
cannot tell you all. I wish I could! One thing,--I want to see my
father dreadfully, to talk to him about mother's going travelling; and
I cannot get sight of him. He stays in London. And time is flying."
"Write," said the housekeeper.
"Oh, I have written. And I have sent messages. I would go up to London
myself, but I cannot go alone."
"Miss Dolly," said the housekeeper, after a minute's thought, "perhaps
I can help here too. I have to go up to London for a few days, and was
thinking to go next week. If you will trust yourself to me, I will take
you, and take care of you."
Dolly was overjoyed at this suggestion. A little more conversation to
settle preliminaries and particulars, and Dolly set off on her way home
with a much lightened heart.
"Ah me!" thought the housekeeper, as she stood at the door looking
after her, "how hard we do make it for each other in this world!"