A SQUARE PARTY.
The passage was stormy and long. Mrs. Copley and her daughter were both
soon fully occupied with attending to their own sensations; and neither
Rupert nor Lawrence had any more power to annoy them till they reached
quiet water again. But even in the depths of sea misery, Dolly's deeper
distress broke forth. "My father! my father! What shall I do to save my
father!" she was crying in her heart; all the while with a sense that
every hour was bringing her further from him and from the chance of
saving him.
Still, Dolly was seventeen; and at seventeen one cannot be always cast
down; and when rough water and troubled skies, and ship noises and
smells, were all left behind, as it seemed, in the German ocean, and
Dolly found herself one morning in the hotel at Rotterdam, eating a
very good breakfast, her spirits sprang up in spite of herself. The
retiring wave of bodily misery carried with it for the moment all
other. The sun was shining again; and after breakfast they stood
together at one of the windows looking out upon the new world they had
come to. Their hotel faced the quay: they saw before them an extent of
water glittering in the sunshine, steamers waiting for their time of
sailing, small craft flying about in all directions, and activity,
bustle, and business filling every nook and corner of the scene.
Dolly's heart leaped up; the stir was very inspiriting; and how lovely
the sunshine was, and how pleasant the novelty! And then, to think that
she had but touched the shore of novelty; that all Central Europe was
behind her as she stood looking out on the quay!--Her father would
surely catch them up somewhere, and then all would go well. She was
silent, in the full joy of seeing.
"What's the next move?" said Lawrence. He did not care for Rotterdam
quay. He had been looking at Dolly, charmed with the delicate, fresh
picture she made. The line of frank pleasure on her lips, it was as
frank as a child's, and the eyes were as absorbed; and yet they were
grave, womanly eyes, he knew, not easy to cheat, with all their
simplicity. The mingling of qualities was delicious, and not to be
found elsewhere in all his sphere of experience. Even her little hands
were full of character, with a certain precision of action and calm of
repose which gave to all their movements a certain thorough-bred grace,
which Lawrence could recognise though he could not analyse. Then the
little head with its masses of wavy hair was so lovely, and the slim
figure so full of that same certainty of action and grace of rest which
he admired; there was nothing undecided about Dolly, and yet there was
nothing done by rule. That again was a combination he did not know
elsewhere. Her dress--he considered that too. It was the simplest of
travelling dresses, with nothing to mark it, or draw attention, or make
it unfit for its special use--in perfectly good taste. How did she
know? thought Lawrence; for he knew as well as I do that she had not
learned it of her mother. There was nothing marked about Mrs. Copley's
appearance; nevertheless she lacked that harmony of simple good taste
which was all over Dolly. Lawrence looked, until he saw that Rupert was
looking too; and then he thought it was time to break up the exercise.
"What is the next move?" he said.
"We have not settled that," said Dolly. "We could think of nothing on
board ship. Mother, dear, now we are here, which way shall we go?"
"I don't know anything about ways," said Mrs. Copley. "Not here in this
strange country."
"Then put it another way," said Lawrence. "Where do you want to go?"
"Why, to Venice," said Mrs. Copley, looking at him.
"Of course; but you want to see something by the way?"
"I left all that to Mr. Copley," said she, half whimpering. "When do
you think he will come, Mr. St. Leger? I depended on my husband."
"He will come soon," said Lawrence. "But I would not recommend staying
in Rotterdam to wait for him. What do you say to our asking him to meet
us in Wiesbaden? To be sure, the season is over."
"Wiesbaden?" said Mrs. Copley.
"Wiesbaden?" cried Dolly. "Oh no, Mr. St. Leger! Not there, nor in any
such place!"
"The season is over, Miss Dolly."
"I don't want to go to Wiesbaden. Mother, you wanted to see
something--what was it?"
"Waterloo"---- Mrs. Copley began.
"That would take us out of the way of everything--down into
Belgium--and you would not see anything when you got there, Mrs.
Copley. Only some fields; there is nothing left of the battle."
"But if I saw the fields, I could imagine the battle," said Mrs. Copley.
"Could you? Let us imagine something pleasanter. You don't want to go
up the Rhine?"
"I don't want to go anywhere in a boat, Mr. St. Leger. I am going to
keep on land, now I've got there. But I was thinking.--Somebody told me
of some wonderful painted glass, somewhere near Rotterdam, and told me
not to miss seeing it. Where is it?"
"I know," said Dolly; "the place was Gonda; in the cathedral. But where
is Gonda?"
"Nine miles off," said Rupert.
"Then that's where I want to go," said Mrs. Copley. "I have heard all
my life of painted glass; now I should like to see what it amounts to."
"Perhaps that would take us out of our way too, mother."
"I thought we just said we had no way settled," said Mrs. Copley in an
irritated tone. "What's the use of being here, if we can't see anything
now we are here? Nine miles isn't much, anyhow."
"We will go there, dear," said Dolly. "We can go so far and come back
to this place, if necessary."
"And there is another thing I want to see, now we are here," Mrs.
Copley went on. "I want to go to Dresden."
"Dresden!" cried St. Leger. "What's at Dresden?"
"A great many things, I suppose; but what I want to see is the Green
vaults and the picture gallery."
"Mrs. Copley," said Lawrence quietly, "there are galleries of pictures
everywhere. We shall find them at every step--more than you will want
to look at, by a hundred fold."
"But we shall not find Green vaults, shall we? And you will not tell me
that the Dresden madonna is anywhere but at Dresden?"
"I did not know you cared so much about pictures, mother," Dolly
ventured.
"I don't!" said Mrs. Copley,--"not about the pictures; but I don't like
to be here and not see what there is to see. I like to say I have seen
it. It would be absurd to be here and not see things. Your father told
me to go just where I wanted to; and if I don't go to Waterloo, I want
to see Dresden."
"And from there?" said Lawrence.
"I don't know. I suppose we can find our way from there to Venice
somehow."
"But do you not include Cologne Cathedral in the things you wish to
see?"
"Cologne? I don't know about cathedrals. We are going to see one now,
aren't we? Isn't one as good as another?"
"To pray in, I have no doubt," said Lawrence; "but hardly to look at."
"Well, you don't think churches ought to be built to look at, do you? I
think that is wicked. Churches are meant for something."
"You would not object to looking at them when they _are_ built? would
you? Here we are now, going to see Gonda Cathedral."
"No, I am not," said Mrs. Copley. "I am going to see the glass windows.
We shall not see them to-day if we stand here talking."
Lawrence ordered a carriage, and the party set out. He wished devoutly
that it had numbered five instead of four, so that Rupert could have
been sent outside. But the carnage held them all comfortably.
Dolly was a little uneasy at the travelling problem before her;
however, no uneasiness could stand long against the charm of that
morning's drive. The blessed familiar sun shone on a world so very
different from all the world she had ever known before. On every hand
were flower gardens; on both sides of the way; and in the midst of the
flower gardens stood pleasant-looking country houses; while the road
was bordered with narrow canals, over which drawbridges of extravagant
size led to the houses. It was a rich and quaint and pretty landscape
under the September sun; and Dolly felt all concern and annoyance
melting away from her. She saw that her mother too was amused and
delighted. Surely things would come out right by and by.
The town interested three of the party in a high degree.
"Well!" said Mrs. Copley, "haven't they learned here _yet_ to turn the
front of their houses to the street?"
"Perhaps they never will," said Lawrence. "Why should they?"
"Because things ought to be right, if it is only the fronts of houses,"
said the lady.
"I wouldn't mind which _way_ they looked, if they would only hold up
straight," said Rupert. "What ails the town?"
"Bad soil, most likely," returned Lawrence. "The foundations of Holland
are moral, not physical."
"What do you mean by that?" said Mrs. Copley. "I am sure they have
plenty of money. Is this the cathedral we are coming to?"
"St. Jans Kirk ."
"Well, if that's all!--It isn't handsome a bit!"
"It's real homely, that's a fact," said Rupert.
"You came to see the glass windows," said Lawrence. "Let us go in, and
then pass judgment."
They went in, and then a low exclamation from Rupert was all that was
heard. The ladies were absolutely mute before the blaze of beauty that
met them.
"Well!" said Rupert after a pause of deep silence--"now I know what
folks mean when they say something 'beats the Dutch.' That beats all
_I_ ever saw!--hollow."
"But how delicious!" exclaimed Dolly. "The work is so delicate. And oh,
the colours! Mother, do you see that purple? Who is the person
represented there, Mr. St. Leger?"
"That is Philip the Second. And it is not likely, I may remark, that
any Dutchman painted it. That broken window was given to the church by
Philip."
"Who did paint it, then?"
"I cannot say, really."
"What a pity it is broken!"
"But the others are mostly in very good keeping. Come on--here is the
Duke of Alva."
"If I were a Dutch woman, I would break that," said Dolly.
"No, you wouldn't. Consider--he serves as an adornment of the city
here. Breaking his effigy would not be breaking _him_, Miss Dolly."
"It must be a very strange thing to live in an old country," said
Dolly. "I mean, if you belong to it. Just look at these windows!--How
old is the work itself, Mr. St. Leger?"
"I am not wise in such things;--I should say it must date from the best
period of the art. I believe it is said so."
"And when was that?"
"Really, I don't know; a good while ago, Miss Dolly."
"Philip II. came to reign about the middle of the sixteenth century,"
Rupert remarked.
"Exactly," St. Leger said, looking annoyed.
"Well, sir," Rupert went on, "I would like to ask you one thing--can't
they paint as good a glass window now as they could then?"
"They may paint a better glass window, for aught I know," said
Lawrence; "but the painting will not be so good."
"That's curious," said Rupert. "I thought things went for'ard, and not
back, in the world. Why shouldn't they paint as well now as ever?"
Nobody spoke.
"Why should they not, Mr. St. Leger?" Dolly repeated.
"I don't know, I'm sure. Mrs. Copley, I'm afraid you are fatiguing
yourself."
Mrs. Copley yielded to this gentle suggestion; and long, long before
Dolly was ready to go, the party left the church to repair to a hotel,
and have some refreshment. They were all in high spirits by this time.
"Is it settled where we are to go next?" Mr. St. Leger inquired as they
sat at table.
"I don't care where _next_," said Mrs. Copley; "but only I want to come
out at Dresden."
"But Dresden, mother"--said Dolly gently, "it is not in our way to
Venice." She interpreted the expression she saw in Lawrence's face.
"Dolly, the Green vaults are in Dresden. I am not going to be so near
and not see them. Wasn't I right about the painted windows? I never saw
anything so beautiful in my life, nor you didn't. I wouldn't have
missed it for anything. Now you'll see if I ain't right about the Green
vaults."
"What do you expect to find in them?" Lawrence asked. "I do not
remember anything about such a mysterious place."
"I have heard about it in London," Mrs. Copley answered. "Somebody who
had been there told me about it, and I made up my mind I'd see it if
ever I got a chance. It is like having Aladdin's lamp and going down
into _his_ vault--only you can't take away what you've a mind to;
that's the only difference."
"But what is there? Aladdin's grotto was full of precious stones, if I
remember."
"And so are these," cried Mrs. Copley. "There is an egg with a hen in
it."
At this there was a general laugh.
"It's a fact," said Mrs. Copley. "And in the hen, or under it--_in_ the
hen, I believe--there is a crown of gold and diamonds and pearls, with
a motto. Oh, it's wonderful. It's better than the Arabian Nights, if
it's true."
"Except that we cannot take the egg away with us," said Lawrence.
"However--pray, do they let in the indiscriminate public to see these
wonders?"
"I don't know. I suppose there are ways to get in, or nobody would have
been in."
"No doubt; the problem is, to find the way. Influence may be necessary,
possibly."
"I daresay Mr. Copley can manage it. Do write and ask him what we must
do, Dolly; and ask him to send us letters, or leave, or whatever we
must have. Write to-day, will you? and ask him to send it right away.
Of course there are ways to do things."
"May I make a suggestion?" said Lawrence. "If we are to go on to
Dresden, why should we return to Rotterdam? We might send back to the
hotel for our luggage, and meanwhile you can rest here. And then we can
go on to Utrecht early to-morrow; or this evening, if you like. It
would save time."
This plan met approval. Rupert volunteered to go back and bring Mrs.
Copley's belongings safely to Gonda.
"And while you are about it, bring mine too, my good fellow, will you?"
said St. Leger as Rupert was about to go. He spoke somewhat
superciliously. But the other answered with cool good humour,
"All right. I'll do that, on the understanding that you'll do as much
for me next time." And he went.
"Confound him!" said Lawrence; while Dolly smiled.
"Hush!" she said. "I am sure that is a fair bargain."
"Where did Mr. Copley pick up such a green hand?"
"Did you never see him at the office?"
"What office?"
"The Consul's office, in London. You have been there enough."
"Oh, ah--the Consul's office," said Lawrence. "True, if he was there I
must have seen him. But what do we want of him here?"
"He is useful to you just now," said Dolly.
But afterwards she took up the question again and, what Lawrence did
not dream of, included his name in it. Why was either of these young
men there? This time of waiting at the hotel gave Dolly a chance to
think; and while she sat at the window and watched the strange figures
and novel sights in the street, her mind began to go over more
questions than one. She felt in a sort lost without her father. Here
were she and her mother taking a journey through Europe in the care of
these two young men. What were they there for? Rupert certainly for her
pleasure and service, she knew; Lawrence, she was equally sure, for his
own. How should she manage them? for Lawrence must not be encouraged,
while at the same time he could not be sent away. At least, not yet.
Careful, and cool, and womanly, she must be; and that was not so very
difficult, for poor Dolly felt as if glad childish days were past for
her.
Another question was, how she should get the most good of her journey,
and how she could help Rupert, who, she could see, was on the watch to
improve himself. Dolly had a sympathy for him. She resolved that she
would study up every subject that presented itself, and set Rupert upon
doing the same. St. Leger might take care of himself. Yet Dolly's
conscience would not let him go so. No; one can be nobody's travelling
companion for days or weeks, without having duties to fulfil towards
him; but Dolly thought the duties were very difficult in this her
particular case. If her father would but come! And therewith Dolly sat
down and wrote him the tenderest, lovingest of letters, telling him
about their journey, and the glass windows; and begging him to meet
them in Dresden or before, so that they might see the fabulous Green
vaults together. In any case, she begged him to make such provision
that Mrs. Copley might not be disappointed of seeing them. All Dolly's
eloquence and some tears were poured out upon that sheet of paper; and
as she sealed it up she felt again that she was surely growing to be a
woman; the days of her childhood were gone.
Not so far off, however, but that Dolly's spirits sprang up again after
the letter was despatched, and were able to take exquisite pleasure in
everything the further journey offered. Even the unattractive was
novel, and what was not unattractive was so charming. She admired the
quaint, clean, bright, fanciful Dutch towns; the abundance of flowers
still to be seen abroad; the smiling country places surrounding the
towns; the strange carvings and devices on the houses; the crooked
streets.
"You are the first person I ever saw," Lawrence said admiringly, "who
found beauty in crooked streets."
"Do you like straight ones?" said Dolly.
"Certainly. Why not?"
"You look from end to end; you see all there is at once; walk and walk
as you may, there is no change, but the same wearisome lines of houses.
Now when streets are not straight, but have windings and turnings, you
are always coming to something new."
"I suppose you like them to be up hill and down too?"
"Oh, very much!"
"You do not find that in Holland."
"No, but in Boston."
"Ah, indeed!" said Lawrence.
"I wonder," Dolly went on, "what makes one nation so different from
another. _You_ are on an island; but here there is only a line between
Holland and Germany, and the people are not alike."
"Comes from what they eat," said Lawrence.
"Their _food?_" said Dolly.
"Yes. The Scotchman lives upon porridge, the Englishman on beef and
porter, the German on sausages and beer."
"The French?"
"Oh, on soup and salad and sour wine."
"And Italians?"
"On grapes and olives."
"That will do to talk about," said Dolly; "but it does not touch the
question."
"Not touch the question! I beg your pardon--but it does touch it most
essentially. Do you think it makes no difference to a man what sort of
a dinner he eats?"
"A great difference _to_ some men; but does it make much difference in
him?"
"Yes," said Rupert; and "Yes!" said Lawrence, with a unanimity which
made Dolly smile. "I can tell you," the latter went on, "a man is one
thing or another for the day, according to whether he has had a good
breakfast or a bad one."
"I understand. That's temper."
"It is not temper at all. It is physical condition."
"It's feeling put to rights, _I_ think," said Rupert.
"I suppose all these people are suited, in their several ways," said
Dolly. "Will mother like Venice, Mr. St. Leger, when we get there? What
is it like?"
"Like a city afloat. _You_ will like it, for the strangeness and the
beautiful things you will find there. I can't say about Mrs. Copley,
I'm sure."
"What do they drink there?" said Rupert. "Water?"
"Well, not exactly. You can judge for yourself, my good fellow."
"But that is Italy," said Dolly. "I suppose there is no beer or porter?"
"Well, you can find it, of course, if you want it; there are people
enough coming and going that _do_ want it; but in Venice you can have
pure wine, and at a reasonable price, too."
"At hotels, of course," said Dolly faintly.
"Of course, at some of them. But I was not thinking of hotels."
"Of what, then?"
"Wine-shops.''
"Wine-shops! Not for people who only want a glass, or two glasses?"
"Just for them. A glass or two, or half a dozen."
"Restaurants, you mean?"
"No, I do not mean restaurants. They are just wine-shops; sell nothing
but wine. Odd little places. There's no show; there's no set out; there
are just the casks from which the wine is drawn, and the glasses-mugs,
I should say; queer things; pints and quarts, and so on. Nothing else
is there, but the customers and the people who serve you."
"And people go into such places to drink wine? merely to drink, without
eating anything?"
"They can eat, if they like. There are street venders, that watch the
custom and come in immediately after any one enters; they bring fruit
and confections and trifles."
"You do not mean that _gentlemen_ go to these places, Mr. St. Leger?"
"Certainly. The wine is pure, and sold at a reasonable rate. Gentlemen
go, of course--if they know where to go."
Dolly's heart sank. In Venice this!--where she had hoped to have her
father with her safe. She had known there was wine enough to be had in
hotels; but that, she knew too, costs money, if people will have it
good; and Mr. Copley liked no other. But cheap wine-shops, "if you know
where to go,"--therefore retired and comparatively private
places,--were _those_ to be found in Venice, the goal of her hopes?
Dolly's cheeks grew perceptibly pale.
"What is the matter, Miss Dolly?" Lawrence asked, watching her. But
Dolly could not answer; and she thought he knew, besides.
"There is no harm in pure wine," he went on.
Dolly flashed a look at him upon that, a most involuntary, innocent
look; yet one which he would have worked half a day for if it could
have been obtained so. It was eloquent, it was brilliant, it was
tender; it carried a fiery appeal against the truth of his words, and
at the same time a most moving deprecation of his acting in consonance
with them. She dared not speak plainer, and she could not have spoken
plainer, if she had talked for an hour. Lawrence would have urged
further his view of the subject, but that look stopped him. Indeed, the
beauty of it put for the moment the occasion of it out of his head.
Thanks to Rupert's efficient agency, they were able to spend that night
at Utrecht, and the next day went on. It seemed to Dolly that every
hour was separating her further from her father; which to be sure
literally was true; nevertheless she had to give herself up to the
witchery of that drive. The varied beauty, and the constant novelty on
every hand, were a perpetual entertainment. Mrs. Copley even forgot
herself and her grievances in looking out of the carriage windows;
indeed, the only trouble she gave was in her frequent changing places
with Dolly to secure now this and now that view.
"We haven't got such roads in Massachusetts," remarked Rupert. "This is
what I call first-rate going."
"Have you got such anything else there?" Lawrence inquired smoothly.
"Not such land, I'm bound to say."
"No," said Dolly, "this is not in the least like Massachusetts, in
anything. O mother, look at those cattle! why there must be thousands
of them; how beautiful! You would not find such an immense level green
plain in Massachusetts, Mr. St. Leger. I never saw such a one anywhere."
Mrs. Copley took that side of the carriage.
"It wouldn't be used for a pasture ground, if we had it there," said
Rupert.
"Perhaps it would. I fancy it is too wet for grain," St. Leger answered.
"Now here is a lake again," said Dolly. "How large, and how pretty!
Miles and miles, it must be. How pretty those little islands are, Mr.
Babbage!"
Mrs. Copley exchanged again, and immediately burst out--
"Dolly, Dolly, did you see that woman's earrings? I declare they were a
foot long."
"I beg your pardon--half a foot, Mrs. Copley."
"What do you suppose they are made of?"
"True gold or silver."
"Mercy! that's the oddest thing I've seen yet. I suppose Holland is a
very rich country."
"And here come country houses and gardens again," said Dolly. "There's
a garden filled with marble statues, mother."
Mrs. Copley shifted her seat to the other side to look at the statues,
and directly after went back to see some curiously trimmed yews in
another garden. So it went on; Dolly and her mother getting a good deal
of exercise by the way. Mrs. Copley was ready for her dinner, and
enjoyed it; and Dolly perceiving this enjoyed hers too.
Then they were delighted with Arnheim. They drove into the town towards
evening; and the quaint, picturesque look of the place, lying bright in
the sunshine of a warm September day, took the hearts of both ladies.
The odd gables, the endless variety of building, the balconies hung
with climbing vines; and above all, the little gardens, gay with fall
flowers and furnished with arbours or some sort of shelter, under some
of which people were taking tea, while in others the wooden tables and
chairs stood ready though empty, testifying to a good deal of habitual
out-of-door life; they stirred Dolly's fancy and Mrs. Copley's
curiosity. Both of them were glad to spend the night in such a pretty
place.
After they had had supper comfortably, Dolly left her mother talking to
St. Leger and slipped out quietly to take a walk, having privately
summoned Rupert to attend her. The walk was full of enjoyment. It
lasted a good while; till Dolly began to grow a little tired, and the
evening light was dying away; then the steps slackened which had been
very brisk at setting out, and Dolly began to let her thoughts go
beyond what was immediately before her. She was very much inclined to
be glad now of Rupert's presence in the party. She perceived that he
was already devoted to her service; not with Mr. St. Leger's
pretensions, but with something more like the adoration a heathen
devotee pays to his goddess. Rupert already watched her eyes and
followed her wishes, sometimes before they were spoken. It was plain
that she might rely upon him for all to which his powers would reach;
and a strong element of good-will began to mix with her confidence in
him. What could she do, to help make this journey a benefit to the boy?
He had known little of good or gentle influences in his life; yet he
was gentle himself and much inclined to be good, she thought. And he
might be very important to her yet, before she got home.
"I don't know the first thing about this country," he broke the
silence. "It was always a little spot in the corner of the map that I
thought was no sort of count. Why, it's a grand place!"
"You ought to read about it in history."
"I never read much history, that's a fact," Rupert answered. "Never had
much to read," he added with a laugh. "Fact is, my life up to now has
been pretty much of a scrimmage for the needful."
"Knowledge is needful," said Dolly.
"That's a fact; but a fellow must live first, you see. And that warn't
always easy once."
"And what are your plans or prospects? What do you mean to be--or do?
what do you mean to make of yourself?"
Rupert half laughed. "I haven't any prospects--to speak of. In fact, I
don't see ahead any further than Venice. As to what I am to be, or
do,--I expect that will be settled without any choice of mine. I've got
along, so far, somehow; I guess I'll get along yet."
"Are you a Christian?" Dolly asked, following a sudden impulse.
"I guess I ain't what you mean by that."
"What do you mean by it?"
"Well--where I come from, they call Christians folks that have j'ined
the church."
"That's making a profession," said Dolly.
"Yes, I've heard folks call it that."
"But what is the reality? _What_ do you think a man professes when he
joins the church?"
"I'll be shot if I know," Rupert answered, looking at her hard in the
fading light. "I'd like first-rate to hear you say."
"It is just to be a servant of Christ," said Dolly. "A true servant,
'doing the will of God from the heart.'"
"How are you going to know what His will is? I should be bothered if
you asked _me_."
"Oh, He has told us that," said Dolly, surprised. "In the Bible."
"Then I s'pose you've got to study _that_ considerable."
"Certainly."
"Well, don't it say things pretty different from what most folks do?"
"Yes. What then?"
"Then it wouldn't be just easy to get along with it, I should think."
"What then?"
"Well!" said Rupert,--"how are you going to live in the world, and not
do as the world do?"
"Then you _have_ studied the Bible a little?"
"No, fact, I haven't," said Rupert. "But I've heard folks talk now and
again; and that's what I think about it."
"Suppose it is difficult?" said Dolly. "But it is really not difficult,
if one is a true servant of God and not only make-believe. Suppose it
were difficult, though. Do you remember what Christ said of the two
ways, serving Him and not serving Him?"
Rupert shook his head.
"Have you got a Bible of your own?"
"No," said Rupert. "That's an article I never owned yet. I've always
wanted other things more, you see."
"And I would rather want everything else in the world," said Dolly. "I
mean, I would rather be without everything else."
"Surely!" said Rupert.
"Because I am a servant of Christ, you see. Now that is what I want you
to be. And as to the question of ease or difficulty--this is what I was
going to repeat to you. Jesus said, that those who hear and obey Him
are like a house planted on a rock; fixed and firm; a house that when
the storms come and the winds blow, is never so much as shaken. But
those who do not obey Him are like a house built on the sand. When the
storms blow and the winds beat, it will fall terribly and all to ruins.
It seems to me, Mr. Babbage, that _that_ is harder than the other."
"Suppose the storms do not come?" said Rupert.
"I guess they come to most people," said Dolly soberly. "But the Lord
did not mean these storms merely. I don't know whether He meant them at
all. He meant the time by and by.--Come, we must go home," said Dolly,
beginning to go forward again. "I wish you would be a servant of
Christ, Mr. Babbage!"
"Why?"
"Oh, because all that is sure and strong and safe and happy is on that
side," said Dolly, speaking eagerly. "All that is noble and true and
good. You are sure of nothing if you are not a Christian, Mr. Babbage;
you are not sure even of yourself. Temptation may whirl you, you don't
know where, and before you know it and before you can help it. And when
the storms come, those storms--your house will--go down--in the
sands"---- And to Rupert's enormous astonishment, Dolly's voice broke
here, and for a second she stood still, drawing long sobs; then she
lifted her head with an effort, took his arm and went swiftly back on
the way to the hotel. He had not been able to say one word. Rupert
could not have the faintest notion of the experience which had pointed
and sharpened Dolly's last words; he could not imagine why, as they
walked home, she should catch a hasty breath now and then, as he knew
she did, a breath which was almost a sob; but Rupert Babbage was
Dolly's devoted slave from that day.
Lawrence himself marvelled somewhat at the appearance and manner of the
young lady in the evening. The talk and the thoughts had roused and
stirred Dolly, with partly the stir of pain, but partly also the sense
of work to do and the calling up of all her loving strength to do it.
Her cheek had a little more colour than usual, her eye a soft hidden
fire, her voice a thrill of tender power. She was like, Lawrence
thought, a most rare wild wood flower, some spiritual orchis or
delicious and delicate geranium; in contrast to the severely trained,
massive and immoveable tulips and camellias of society. She was at a
vexatious distance from him, however; and handled him with a calm
superiority which no woman of the world could have improved upon. Only
it was nature with Dolly.