THE CONSUL'S OFFICE.
Before Dolly had reached home she was joined by Mr. St. Leger. He was
still in the park.
"Have you been for a walk?" said he in astonished fashion.
"I suppose that would be a natural conclusion," said Dolly. She spoke
easily; it rejoiced her to find how easily she could now meet Mr. St.
Leger. Yet the game was not all played out, either.
"Why didn't you let me know, that I might go with you?" he went on.
"That was not in my purpose," rejoined Dolly lightly.
"That is very unkind, Dolly."
"Truth is never unkind."
"Yes, indeed, it may be; it is now."
"Would you like falsehood better?"
"You need not be false."
"I must be either false or true, must I not? Which would you rather
have, Mr. St. Leger?"
"It would be no good, my choosing," said he, with a half laugh; "for
you would never give me anything but absolute truth, I know. I believe
that is one of your attractions, Dolly. All other girls put on
something, and a fellow never can tell what he is served to, the dish
is spiced so cleverly. But you are like a piece of game, with no
flavour but your own; and that is wild enough, and rare enough too."
"Mr. St. Leger," said Dolly gravely, "you ought to study rhetoric.''
"Have. Why?"
"I am afraid that last speech was rather mixed up."
"Look here,--I wish you'd call me Lawrence. We know each other quite
well enough."
"Is that the custom in your country?"
"It is going to be your country, as well. You need not speak in that
fashion."
"I am thinking of leaving the country," Dolly went on unconcernedly.
"Mother is longing to travel; and I am going to bring it about."
"I have tried Mr. Copley on that subject, I assure you."
"I shall try now, and do it."
"Think so? Then we will consult about plans and routes again this
evening. Mrs. Copley likes that almost as well as the thing itself.
For, Dolly, you cannot get along without me."
Which assertion Dolly left uncontroverted.
A few days after Lawrence had gone back to town was the time for Mrs.
Jersey's journey. Dolly told her mother her plan; and after a deal of
doubts and fears and arguings on Mrs. Copley's part, it was finally
agreed to. It seemed the hopefullest thing to do; and Mrs. Copley could
be left well enough with the servants for a few days. So, early one
morning Mrs. Jersey called for her, and Dolly with a beating heart
kissed her mother and went off.
Some business reasons occasioned the housekeeper to make the journey in
a little covered carriage belonging to the house, instead of taking the
public post-coach. It was all the pleasanter for Dolly, being entirely
private and quiet; though the time consumed was longer. They were then
in the end of summer; the weather was delicious and warm; the country
rich in flowers and grain fields and ripening fruit. Dolly at first was
full of delight, the change and the novelty were so welcome, and the
country through which they drove was so exceeding lovely. Nevertheless,
as the day went by there began to creep over her a strange feeling of
loneliness; a feeling of being out on the journey of life all by
herself and left to her own skill and resources. It was not the journey
to London; for _that_ she was well accompanied and provided; it was the
real undertaking upon which she had set out, the goal of which was not
London but--her father. To find her father not only, but to keep him;
to prevent his being lost to himself, lost to her mother, to life, and
to her. Could she? Or was she embarked on an enterprise beyond her
strength? A weak girl; what was she, to do so much! It grew and pressed
upon her, this feeling of being alone and busy with a work too great
for her; till gradually the lovely country through which she was
passing ceased to be lovely; it might have been a wilderness, for all
its cheer or promise to her. Dolly had talked at first, in simple,
gleeful, girlish pleasure; little by little her words grew fewer, her
eye lost its glad life; until she sat back, withdrawn into herself, and
spoke no more unless spoken to.
The housekeeper noticed the change, saw and read the abstracted,
thoughtful look that had taken place of the gay, interested delight of
the morning. She perceived that Dolly had serious work on hand, of some
sort; and she longed to help her. For the fair, sweet, womanly
thoughtfulness was as lofty and lovely in its way, as the childlike
simplicity of enjoyment before had been bewitching. She was glad when
the day's ride came to an end.
The stoppage was made at a little wayside inn; a low building of grey
stone, overgrown with ivy and climbing roses, with a neatly kept bit of
grass in front. Here Dolly's interest and delight awoke again. This was
something unlike all she had ever seen. Simple and plain enough the inn
was; stone flooring and wooden furniture of heavy and ancient pattern
made it that; but at the same time it was substantial, comfortable,
neat as wax, and with a certain air of well-to-do thrift which was very
pleasant. Mrs. Jersey was known here and warmly received. The
travellers were shown into a cosy little room, brown wainscoted, and
with a great jar of flowers in the chimney; and here the cloth was
immediately laid for their dinner, or supper. For the supper itself
they had to wait a little; and after putting off her bonnet and
refreshing herself in an inner room, Dolly sat down by one of the small
windows. The day was declining. Slant sunbeams shot across a wide plain
and threw long shadows from the trees. The trees, especially those
overhanging the inn, were old and large and fine; the lights and
shadows were moveless, calm, peaceful; one or two neighbouring fields
were stocked with beautiful cattle; and a flock of geese went waddling
along over the green. It was removed from all the scenes of Dolly's
experience; as unlike them as her being there alone was unlike the rest
of her life; in the strangeness there was this time an element of
relief.
"How beautiful the world is, Mrs. Jersey!" she remarked.
"You find it so here?" answered her friend.
"Why, yes, I do. Don't you?"
"I suppose I am spoiled, Miss Dolly, by being accustomed to Brierley."
"Oh, this is not Brierley! but I am not comparing them. This is very
pretty, Mrs. Jersey! Why, Mrs. Jersey, you don't despise a daisy
because it isn't a rose!"
"No," said her friend; "but I suppose I cannot see the daisy when the
rose is by." She was looking at Dolly.
"Well," said Dolly, "the rose is not by; and I like this very much.
What a neat house! and what a pleasant sort of comfort there is about
everything. I would not have missed this, Mrs. Jersey, for a good deal."
"I am glad, Miss Dolly. I was thinking you were not taking much good of
your day's ride--the latter part."
Dolly was silent, looking out now somewhat soberly upon the smiling
scene; then she jumped up and threw off her gravity, and came to the
supper-table. It was spread with exquisite neatness, and appetising
nicety. Dolly found herself hungry. If but her errand to London had
been of a less serious and critical character, she could have greatly
enjoyed the adventure and its picturesque circumstances. With the
elastic strength of seventeen, however, she did enjoy it, even so.
"How good you are to me, Mrs. Jersey!" she said, after the table was
cleared and the two were sitting in the falling twilight. The still
peace outside and inside the house had found its way to Dolly's heart.
There was the brooding hush of the summer evening, marked, not broken,
by sounds of insects or lowing of cattle, and the voices of farm
servants attending to their work. It was yet bright outside, though the
sun had long gone down; inside the house shades were gathering.
"I wish I could be good to you, Miss Dolly," was the housekeeper's
answer.
"Oh, you are! I do not know what in the world I should have done, if
you had not let me go with you to London now."
"What can I do for you when we get there?"
"Oh, nothing! thank you."
"You know exactly where to go and what to do?"
"I shall take a cab and go--let me see,--yes, to father's rooms. If I
do not find him there, I must go to his office."
"In the City?"
"Yes. Will that be very far from your house? Why, yes, of course; we
shall be at the West End. Well, all the same, near or far, I must see
my father."
"You must be so good as to let me go in the cab with you," said Mrs.
Jersey. "I cannot let you drive all about London alone by yourself."
"Oh, thank you!" said Dolly again, with an undoubted accent of relief.
"But"----
That sentence remained unfinished. Dolly meditated. So did the
housekeeper. She was wise enough to see that all was not exactly clear
and fair in her young friend's path; of what nature the trouble might
be she could only surmise.
"What if Mr. Copley should not be in London?" she ventured.
"Oh, he must be. At least he was there a very few days ago. He never is
away from London, except when he goes to visit somewhere."
"It is coming towards the time now when the gentlemen go down into the
country to shoot."
"Father does not care for shooting. I mean to get him to go to Venice
instead, with mother and me."
"Suppose you should fail in that plan, Miss Dolly? is your business
done then?"
"No. Oh no!" said Dolly, for a moment covering her face with her hands.
"O Mrs. Jersey! if I could not manage that, I do not know what I should
do!" Dolly's voice had a premonition of despair. "But I guess I can do
it," she added with a resumption of cheerfulness. And she talked on
from that time merrily of other things.
When they arrived in London next day, it was already too late for Dolly
to do anything. She was fain to let Mrs. Jersey lodge her and feast her
and pet her to her heart's content. She was put in a pretty room in the
great house; she was entertained royally, as far as the viands went;
and in every imaginable way the housekeeper was carefully kind. Well
for Dolly; who needed all the help of kindness and care. The whole long
day she had been brooding on what she had to do, and trying to imagine
how things would be. Without data, that is a specially wearisome
occupation; inasmuch as one may imagine anything, and there is nothing
to contradict the most extravagant speculations. Dolly's head and heart
were tired by the time night came, and her nerves in an excited
condition, to which Mrs. Jersey's ministrations and the interest of the
place gave a welcome relief. Dolly tried to put off thought. But
everything pressed upon her, now that she was so near seeing her
father; and seventeen-years-old felt as if it had a great load on its
young shoulders.
"Mrs. Jersey," she began, after supper, "you are quite sure that it is
never right for a girl to sacrifice herself for the sake of benefiting
her parents?"
"In the way of marrying a man she does not love? Miss Dolly, a
Christian man would never have a young lady marry him on those terms."
"Suppose he is not a Christian man?"
"Then he may be selfish enough to do it. But in that case, Miss Dolly,
a Christian woman can have nothing to say to him."
"Why not? She might bring _him_ to be Christian, you know."
"That isn't the Lord's way, Miss Dolly."
"What is His way, then?"
"You will find it in the sixth chapter of 2nd Corinthians. 'Be not
unequally yoked together with unbelievers.'"
"But that means"----
"It _says_--Miss Dolly; it _says_,--do not be yoked up with one who is
not following the Lord; neither in marriage, nor in business. Two oxen
in a yoke, Miss Dolly, have to pull the same way; and if they don't
want to, the weakest must go with the strongest."
"But might not the Christian one be the strongest?"
"His disobeyeing the Lord's command just shows he isn't that."
Dolly let the subject drop. She took a little cushion and sat down by
her friend's side and laid her head in her lap; and they sat so a
while, Mrs. Jersey looking fondly down upon the very lovely bright head
on her knees, and marvelling sorrowfully at the fathers and mothers who
prepare trouble for such tender and delicate creatures as their young
daughters.
The next morning she admired her charge under a new view of her. Dolly
appeared at breakfast with a calm, measured manner, which, if it were
in part the effect of great pressure upon her spirits, had at the same
time the grace of a very finished breeding. Mrs. Jersey looked and
admired, and wondered too. How had the little American got this air?
She could not put it on herself; but she had seen her mistresses in the
great world wear it; a certain unconscious, disengaged dignity which
sat marvellously well upon the gracious softness and young beauty of
this little girl.
The breakfast was rather silent. The drive, which they entered upon
immediately after, was almost wholly so. Mrs. Jersey, true to her
promise, let her own affairs wait, and accompanied her young friend.
Dolly had changed her plan, and went now first to Mr. Copley's office
in the city. It was the hour when he should be there, and to go to his
lodging would have taken them out of the way. So they drove the long
miles from Grosvenor Square to the American Consul's office. Dolly's
mood was eager and hopeful now; yet with too much pressure to allow of
her talking.
The cab stopped opposite the entrance of a narrow covered way between
two walls of houses. Following this narrow passage, Mrs. Jersey and
Dolly emerged into a little court, very small, on one side of which two
or three steps led to the American Consul's offices. The first one they
entered was full of people, waiting to see the Consul or parleyeing
with one or another of the clerks. Dolly left Mrs. Jersey there to wait
for her, and herself went on into the inner room, her father's special
private office. In those days the office of American Consul was of far
more importance and dignity than to-day; and this room was a tolerably
comfortable one and respectably furnished.
Here, however, her father was not; and it immediately struck Dolly that
he had not been there very lately. How she gathered this impression is
less easy to tell, for she could hardly be said to see distinctly any
one of the characters in which the fact was written. She did not know
that dust lay thick on his writing-table, and that even the papers
piled there were brown with it; she did not know that the windows were
fastened down this warm day, nor that an arm-chair which usually stood
there for the accommodation of visitors was gone, having been slipped
into the outer office by an ease-loving clerk. It was a general air of
forsakenness, visible in these and in yet slighter signs, which struck
Dolly's sense. She stood a moment, bewildered, hoping against sense, as
it were; then turned about. As she turned she was met by a young man
who had followed her in from the outer office. Dolly faced him.
"Where is Mr. Copley?"
"He ain't here." The Yankee accents of home were unmistakeable.
"I see he is not here; but where is he?"
"Couldn't say, reelly. 'Spect he's to his place. We don't ginerally
expect ladies at this time o' day, or I guess he'd ha' ben on hand."
The clerk grinned at Dolly's beauty, the like of which to be sure was
not often seen anywhere at that, or any other, time of day.
"When was Mr. Copley here, sir?"
"Couldn't say. 'Tain't very long, nother. Was you wantin' to see him on
an a'pintment?"
"No. I am Miss Copley. Where can I find my father? Please tell me as
quick as you can."
"Sartain--ef I knowed it. Now I wisht I did! Mr. Copley, he comes and
he goes, and he don't tell me which way; and there it is, you see."
"Where is Mr. St. Leger?"
"Mr. Silliger? Don't know the gentleman. Likely Mr. Copley doos. But he
ain't here to say. Mebbe it 'ud be a good plan to make a note of it.
That's what Mr. Copley allays says; 'make a note of it.'"
"You do not know, sir, perhaps, whether Mr. Copley is in London?"
"He was in London--'taint very long ago, for he was in this here
office, and I see him; but that warn't yesterday, and it warn't the day
before. Where he's betaken himself between whiles, ain't known to me.
Shall I make a note, miss, against he comes?"
"No," said Dolly, turning away; "no need. And no use."
She rejoined Mrs. Jersey and they went back to the carriage.
"He is not there," she said excitedly; "and he has not been there for
several days. We must go to his lodgings--all the way back almost!"
"Never mind," said the housekeeper. "We have the day before us."
"It is almost twelve," said Dolly, looking at her watch. "Before we get
there it will be one. I am a great deal of trouble to you, I fear, Mrs.
Jersey; more than I meant to be."
"My dear, it's no trouble. I am happy to be of any use to you. What
sort of a chain is that you wear, Miss Dolly?"
"Curious, isn't it?" said Dolly. "It was given me long ago. It is woven
of threads of a ship cable."
"It is a beautiful chain," said her friend, examining it admiringly.
"But that is very clever, Miss Dolly! I should never fancy it was a
piece of cable. Is there an anchor anywhere?"
"No," said Dolly, laughing. "Though I am not sure," she added
thoughtfully. "My memory goes back along this chain a great way;--back
to the time when I was a little girl, quite little, and very happy at
school and with a dear aunt, whom I lived with then. And back there at
the end of the chain are all those pleasant images; and one most
beautiful day, when we went to visit a ship; a great man-of-war. A most
beautiful day!" Dolly repeated with the accent of loving recollection.
"And you brought back a piece of cable from the ship, and braided this?"
"No. Oh no! I did not do it; I could not. It was done for me."
"By a friend's fingers?"
"Yes, I suppose you may say so," said Dolly; "though it is a friend I
have never seen since then. I suppose I never shall. But I always wear
the chain. Oh, how long that seems ago!--Is childhood the happiest time
of a person's life, Mrs. Jersey?"
"Maybe I might say yes. Miss Dolly; but if I did, I should mean not
what you mean. I should mean the little-child life that one can have
when one is old. When the heart says, 'Not my will, but Thine'--when it
says, 'Speak, Lord, for Thy servant heareth.' You know, the Master
said, 'Except ye become as little children, ye shall not enter into the
kingdom of heaven.'"
"I don't believe I am just as much of a child, then, as I used to be,"
remarked Dolly.
"Get back to it, my dear, as fast as you can."
"But when one _isn't_ a child, things are so different. It is easy to
trust and give up for a child's things; but when one is a woman"----
"It is just the same, dear Miss Dolly! Our great affairs, they are but
child's matters to the Lord's eyes. The difference is in
ourselves--when our hearts get proud, and our self-will gets up."
"I wish I could be like a child now," said Dolly from the depths of her
heart. "I feel as if I were carrying the whole family on my shoulders,
and as if _I_ must do it."
"You cannot, my dear! Your shoulders will break. 'Casting your care
upon Him,' the Bible says--'for He careth for you.'"
"One does not see Him"---- said Dolly, with her eyes very full.
"Faith can see," the housekeeper returned; and then there was a long
silence; while the carriage rattled along over the streets, and
threaded its way through the throng of business, or bread-seekers or
pleasure-seekers. So many people! Dolly wondered if every one of them
carried his secret burden of care, as she was doing; and if they were,
she wondered how the world lived on and bore the multitudinous strain.
Oh, to be a child, in the full, blessed sense of the term!