SEEING SIGHTS.
The next day's journey was uninteresting and slow. Mrs. Copley grew
tired; and even dinner and rest at a good hotel failed to restore her
spirits.
"How many more days will it be before we get to Dresden?" she desired
to know.
"Keep up your courage, Mrs. Copley," said Lawrence. "Remember the Green
vaults! We have some work before us yet to get there."
"We shall not get there to-morrow?"
"We shall hardly do more than reach Cassel to-morrow."
"I don't know anything about Cassel. Will it be nothing but sand all
the way, like to-day? We have left everything pretty behind us in
Holland."
"I think the way will mend a little," Lawrence allowed.
"What place is next to Cassel?"
"As our resting place for the night? I am afraid it will take us two
days to get to Weimar."
"And then Dresden?"
"No, then Leipzig."
"Oh, I should like to see Leipzig," cried Dolly.
"What for?" said her mother. "I am sure all these places are nothing to
us, and I think the country is very stupid. And I like travelling where
I know what the people say. I feel as if I had got five thousand miles
from anywhere. What do you suppose keeps your father, Dolly?"
"I don't know, mother."
"You may write and tell him, if he don't come to us in Dresden I shall
go back. This isn't _my_ notion of pleasure."
"But it is doing you good, mother."
"I hadn't anything I could eat this evening. If you don't mind, Dolly,
I'll go to bed."
Dolly did mind, for she longed for a walk again among the strange
scenes and people. As it was not to be had this time, she sat at her
window and looked out. It was moonlight, soft weather; and her eye was
at least filled with novelty enough, even so. But her thoughts went
back to what was not novel. The day had been dull and fatiguing.
Dolly's spirits were quiet. She too was longing for her father, with a
craving, anxious longing that was more full of fear than of hope. And
as she thought it over again, she did not like her position. Her mother
was little of a shield between her and what she wanted to escape,
Lawrence St. Leger's attentions; and she could but imperfectly protect
herself. True, she knew she gave him no direct encouragement. Yet he
was constantly with her, he had the right of taking care of her, he let
her see daily what a pleasure it was, and she was not able to turn it
into the reverse of pleasure. She could not repulse him, unless he
pushed his advances beyond a certain point; and Lawrence was clever
enough to see that he had better not do that. He took things for
granted a little, in a way that annoyed Dolly. She knew she gave him no
proper encouragement; nevertheless, the things she could not forbid
might seem to weave a tacit claim by and by. She wished for her father
on her own account. But when she thought of what was keeping him,
Dolly's head went down in agony. "O father, father!" she cried in the
depths of her heart, "why don't you come? how can you let us ask in
vain? and what dreadful, dreadful entanglement it must be that has such
power over you to make you do things so unlike yourself! Oh, what shall
I do? what shall I do? I cannot reach him now--only by letters."
Mrs. Copley got up next morning in renewed spirits. "Dolly," she
inquired while she was dressing, in which business Dolly always helped
her,--"is anything settled between St. Leger and you?"
"Settled, mother? He is father's secretary,--at least so he calls
himself,--taking care of us in father's absence. There is nothing else
settled, nor to be settled."
"You know why he is here, child."
"Because father isn't, mother; and I should like to make the exchange
as quickly as possible."
"What's the matter with him, Dolly?"
"The principal thing is, he won't take a hint."
"No, no; I mean, what fault do you find in him?"
"That, mother. Nothing else."
"He worships the ground you tread on."
"Mother, I think that is a pity. Don't you?"
"I think you ought to be very glad of it. I am. Dolly, the St. Legers
are _very_ well off; he is rich, and his father is rich; and there is
that beautiful place, and position, and everything you could desire."
"Position!" Dolly repeated. "Mother, I think I make my own position. At
any rate, I like it better than his."
"O Dolly! the St. Legers"----
"They are not anything particular, mother. Rich bankers; that is all."
"And isn't that enough?"
"Well, no," said Dolly, laughing. "It would take a good deal more to
tempt me away from you and father."
"But, child, you've got to go. And Mr. St. Leger is as fond of you as
ever he can be."
"He will not break his heart, mother. He is not that sort. Don't think
it."
"I don't care if he did!" said Mrs. Copley, half crying. "It is not
_him_ I am thinking of; it is you."
"Thank you, mother," said Dolly, putting her arms round her mother's
neck and kissing her repeatedly. "But I am not going to leave you for
any such person. And I don't think so much of money as you do."
"Dolly, Dolly, money is a good thing."
"There is not enough of it in the world to buy me, mother. Don't try to
fix my price."
The rest of that day Dolly was gay. Whether from the reaction of
spirits natural to seventeen, or whether she were lightened in heart by
the explicitness of her talk with her mother in the morning, she was
the life of the day's journey. The road itself mended; the landscape
was often noble, with fine oak and beech woods, and lovely in its rich
cultivation; meadows and ploughed fields and tracts of young grain and
smiling villages alternating with one another. There was no tedium in
the carriage from morning to night. St. Leger and Rupert laughed at
Dolly, and with her; and Mrs. Copley, in spite of chewing the cud of
mortification at Dolly's impracticableness, was beguiled into
forgetting herself. Sometimes this happy effect could be managed; at
other times it was impossible. But more days followed, not so gay.
"I'm as tired as I can be!" was Mrs. Copley's declaration, as they were
approaching Leipzig.
"We'll soon get to our hotel now," said Lawrence soothingly.
"'Tain't that," said Mrs. Copley; "I am tired of hotels too. I am
tired of going from one place to another. I should like to stay still
somewhere."
"But it is doing you good, mother."
"I don't see it," said Mrs. Copley. "And what do you mean by its doing
me good, Dolly? What is good that you don't feel? It's like something
handsome that you can't see; and if you call that good, I don't. I
wonder if life's to everybody what it is to me!"
"Not exactly," said Lawrence. "Not everybody can go where he likes and
do what he will, and have such an attendant handmaiden everywhere."
"Do what I will!" cried Mrs. Copley, who like other dissatisfied people
did not like to have her case proved against her,--"much you know about
it, Mr. St. Leger! If I had my will, I would go back to America."
"Then you would have to do without your handmaiden," said Lawrence.
"You do not think that we on this side are so careless of our own
advantage as to let such a valuable article go out of the country?"
It was said with just such a mixture of jest and earnest that Dolly
could hardly take it up. The words soothed Mrs. Copley, though her
answer hardly sounded so.
"I suppose that is what mothers have to make up their minds to," she
said. "Just when their children are ready to be some comfort to them,
off they go, to begin the same game on their own account. I sometimes
wonder whether it is worth while to live at all!"
"But one can't help that," said Rupert.
"I don't see what it amounts to."
"Mother, think of the Dresden Green vaults," said Dolly.
"Well, I do," said Mrs. Copley. "That keeps me up. But when I have seen
them, Dolly, what will keep me up then?"
"Why, Venice, mother."
"And suppose I don't like Venice? I sometimes think I shan't."
"Then we will not stay there, dear. We will go on to Sorrento."
"After all, Dolly, one can't keep always going somewhere. One must come
to a stop."
"The best way is not to think of that till one is obliged to do it,"
said Lawrence. "Enjoy while you have to enjoy."
"That ain't a very safe maxim, seems to me," said Rupert. "One's rope
might get twisted up."
"It is the maxim of a great many wise men," said Lawrence, ignoring the
figure.
"Is it wise?" said Dolly. "Would you spend your money so, like your
time? spend to the last farthing, before you made any provision for
what was to be next?"
"No, for I need not. In money matters one can always take care to have
means ahead."
"So you can in the other thing."
"How?" said Rupert, and "How?" said Lawrence, in the same breath. "You
cannot always, as Mrs. Copley said, go on finding new places to go to
and new things to see."
"I'd have what would put me above the need of that."
"What? Philosophy? Stoicism?"
"No," said Dolly softly.
"Have you discovered the philosopher's stone?" said Lawrence; "and can
you turn common things into gold for your purposes?"
"Yes," said Dolly in the same way.
"Let us hear how, won't you? Is it books, or writing, or art perhaps?
You are very fond of that, I know."
"No," said Dolly slowly; "and I cannot show it to you, either, Mr. St.
Leger. It is like the golden water in the story in the Arabian Nights,
which was at the top of a hill, and people went up the hill to get it;
but on the way so many strange voices sounded in their ears that they
were tempted to look round; and if they looked round they were turned
to stone. So the way was marked with stones."
"And nobody got the golden water?"
"Yes. At last one went up, who being forewarned, stopped her ears and
never looked round. She got to the top and found the golden water. We
in these times give it another name. It is the water of life."
"What _are_ you talking about, Dolly?" said her mother.
"Must one go up the hill with one's ears stopped _now_, to get the
wonderful water?" Lawrence asked. Dolly nodded.
"And when you have got it--what then?"
"Then you have got it," said Dolly. "It is the water of life. And you
have done with this dry wilderness that mother is complaining of, and
you are recommending."
Lawrence stroked and pulled his moustache, as he might have done if a
lady had spoken to him in polite Sanscrit. Rupert looked gravely out of
the carriage window. Neither answered, and nobody spoke another word,
till Mrs. Copley exclaimed, "There's Leipzig!"
"Looks sort o' peaceful now," remarked Rupert.
"Peaceful? Why, ain't the place quiet?" Mrs. Copley asked anxiously.
"Quiet enough," said Lawrence; "but there was a time, not so long ago,
when it wasn't exactly so."
"When was that?"
"When all the uniforms of Europe were chasing through it," said Dolly;
"some chased and some chasing; when the country was covered with
armies; when a half a million of men or so fought a long battle here,
and the suburbs of Leipzig were full of dead and wounded and sick and
starving; there was not much peace then in or out of the city; though
there was some rejoicing."
"Oh," said Mrs. Copley, "you mean"----
"When Napoleon was beaten here, mother."
"War's a mean thing!" said Rupert.
"That's not precisely the view civilised peoples take of it," said
Lawrence with a slight sneer.
"True, though," said Dolly.
"Mean?" said Lawrence. "Do you think it was a mean thing for Germany to
rise up and cast out the power that had been oppressing her? or for the
other powers of Europe to help?"
"No; but very mean for the side that had given the occasion."
"That's as you look at it," said Lawrence.
"No, but how God looks at it. You cannot possibly think," said Dolly
slowly, going back to her old childish expression,--"that He likes it."
Lawrence could not help smiling at this very original view. "Very few
people that make war ask that question," he said.
"God will ask them, though," said Dolly, "why they did not. I think few
people ask that question, Mr. St. Leger, about anything."
"It is not usual, except for a little saint here and there like you,"
he allowed.
"And yet it is the only question. There is nothing else to be asked
about a matter; almost nothing else. If that is settled, it is all
settled."
"If we were only all saints," Lawrence put in.
"Why are not we?"
"I don't know. I suppose everybody is not cut out for such a vocation."
"Everybody ought to be a saint."
"Do you mean that?" cried Rupert. "I thought,--I mean, I thought it was
a special gift."
"Yes," said Dolly with a smile at him; "but God gives it to every one
that wants it. And when the King comes, Mr. St. Leger, He will gather
His saints to Him, and none others; don't yon want to be counted among
them then?--I do!"
I don't know what had wrought up Dolly to this sudden burst; but she
dropped her veil upon eyes all alight, while some soft dripping tears
were falling from them like diamonds. Every one knows the peculiar
brilliancy of a sunlit shower; and the two young men remained fairly
dazzled. Rupert, however, looked very grave, while the other wore a
cloud on his brow.
Dolly was as matter-of-fact as possible when she came out from under
her veil again; and declared she should not go to a hotel in Dresden,
but take a lodging.
"Why?" Lawrence enquired.
"Cheaper. And pleasanter. And much quieter. We shall probably have to
stay several days in Dresden. We must get letters there."
"But you do not know where to go to find lodgings."
"Yes, I do. Or I shall. I hope so. I have sent for the address of the
woman with whom Lady Brierley had lodgings a whole winter."
"Where do you expect to receive this address?"
"In Leipzig, I hope."
"Really, Dolly, you take a good deal upon you, considering how old you
are," said her mother. "Don't you think Mr. St. Leger knows best?"
"No, mother, not for you and me. Oh, _he_ can go to a hotel. He will,
of course."
However, this Mr. St. Leger did not desire. He was obliged to do it,
nevertheless. The letter was found at Leipzig, the lodgings were found
in Dresden, but not roomy enough to hold them all. Mrs. Copley and her
daughter and their attendant Rupert were very comfortably accommodated;
and to Dolly's great joy found themselves alone. Frau Wetterhahn was
all obligingness, hearing Lady Brierley's name, and made them right
welcome. This Frau Wetterhahn! She was the most lively, active,
capable, talkative, bright-eyed, good-humoured, free and easy little
woman that you can imagine. She was really capable, and cooked them a
nice supper. Dolly had unpacked a few things, and felt herself at home,
and the three sat down comfortably to their meal.
"Now, mother, dear," said Dolly, "this is pleasant!"
"Well," said Mrs. Copley, "I think it is. If you only hadn't sent
Lawrence away!"
"He couldn't stay, mother. Frau Wetterhahn sent him away--not I. Change
will be good for him. And for me too. I am going to make believe we are
at home for a little while. And you are going to see the Green vaults;
and I am going to see everything. And these rooms are so cosy!"
"Aren't you going to see the Green vaults too?"
"Indeed, I hope so. But we may have to wait a day or two, dear mother;
that will be good, and you can have a rest."
"I'm sure I'm glad of it," said Mrs. Copley. "I am just tired of
riding, and more tired yet of seeing everlasting new things. I am
aching for something I've seen before in my life."
"Well, here's a cup of coffee, mother."
Mrs. Copley tasted.
"If you think _that's_ like anything I used to have at home, I'm sorry
for you!" she said with a reproachful look.
"Don't you like it? I do. I like it because it is different. But I
think it is very good, mother. And look--here is some delicious bread."
"It's like no bread I ever saw till I came to Germany. Oh, mercy! why
must folks have so many ways? I wonder how things will be at Venice!"
"Stranger than ever, mother, I'm afraid."
"Then I shall get tired of it. Isn't this a very roundabout way that we
are going to Venice--round this way by Dresden?"
"Why, yes, mother, of course; but the Green vaults are here, and you
were bound to see the Green vaults."
"I wouldn't have come, if I had known it was so far," said Mrs. Copley.
But she relished her supper, and was not nervous, and slept well; and
Dolly was somewhat in hopes that Dresden was not a bad move after all.
They had to wait, as she said, for letters, and for the sight of the
glories that had attracted them hither. Several days passed by.
They passed in delights, for Dolly. Two mornings were spent in the
great picture gallery. Mrs. Copley's desires and expectations having
focussed upon the Green vaults, were hardly able to see anything else
clearly; indeed, she declared that she did not think the wonderful
Madonna was so very wonderful after all; no woman could stand upon
clouds in that way, and as she _was_ a woman, she did not see why the
painter did not exhibit her in a possible situation; and those little
angels at the foot of the picture--where was the other half of them
supposed to be? she did not like half of anything. But Dolly dreamed in
rapture, before this and many another wonder of art. Mrs. Copley made
processions round the rooms constantly, drawing, of course, St. Leger
with her; she could not be still. But Dolly would stop before a picture
and be immoveable for half an hour, drinking in pleasure and feeding
upon knowledge; and Rupert generally took post behind her and acted as
body-guard. What he made of the show, I do not know. Dolly asked him
how he liked it? He said, "first-rate."
"Well, what do you think of it, Rupert?" Dolly asked gaily.
"Well, I guess I don't just see into it," was the dubious answer. "If
these are likenesses of folks, they ain't like my folks."
"Oh, but they are not likenesses; most of them are not."
"What are they, then? and what is the good of 'em, if they don't mean
anything?"
"They are out of people's imagination; as the painter imagined such and
such persons might have looked, in such situations."
"How the painter imagined they might have looked!" cried Rupert.
"Yes. And they mean a great deal; all that was in the painter's mind."
"I don't care a red cent how a man fancies somebody looked. I'd like
the real thing, if I could get it. I'd go some ways to see how the
mother of Christ _did_ look; but you say that ain't it?"
"No," said Dolly, smiling.
Rupert surveyed the great picture again.
"Don't you think it is beautiful, Rupert?" Dolly pursued, curious to
know what went on in his thoughts.
"I've seen as handsome faces--and handsomer," he said slowly; "and I
like flesh and blood a long sight better than a painting, anyhow."
"Handsome?" said Dolly. "Oh, it is not _that_--it is so much more!"----
"What is it, Miss Dolly?" said Lawrence, just then coming up behind
her. "I should like to hear your criticism. Do put it in words."
"That's not easy; and it is not criticism. But I'll tell you how it
seems to me; as the painting, not of anybody's features, but of
somebody's nature, spirit. It is a painting of the spiritual character."
"Mental traits can be expressed in words, though," said Lawrence.
"You'll go on, I hope?"
"I cannot," said Dolly. "It is not the lovely face, Mr. Babbage; it is
thought and feeling, love and purity, and majesty--but the majesty of a
person who has no thought of herself."
Dolly could not get out of that one room; she sat before the Raphael,
and then stood fixed before the "Notte" or the "Magdalene" of
Correggio; and would not come away. Rupert always attended on her, and
Mrs. Copley as regularly made progresses through the rooms on
Lawrence's arm, till she declared herself tired out. They were much
beholden to Lawrence and his good offices these days, more than they
knew; for it was past the season when the gallery was open to the
public, and entrance was obtained solely by the influence of St.
Leger's mediation and money; how much of the latter they never knew.
Lawrence was a very good escort also; his address was pleasant, and his
knowledge of men and things sufficient for useful purposes; he knew in
general what was what and who was who, and was never at a loss. Rupert
followed the party like a faithful dog, ready for service and with no
opportunity to show it; Lawrence held the post of leader and manager
now, and filled it well. In matters of art, however, I am bound to say,
though he could talk more, he knew as little as Rupert himself.
"What is to be done to-morrow?" he asked, in the evening of that second
day.
"We haven't got our letters yet," said Mrs. Copley. "I can't see why
they don't come."
"So the Green vaults must wait. What else shall we do?"
"Oh," said Dolly, "might we not go to the gallery again?"
"Another day?" cried her mother. "Why, you have been there two whole
mornings, child. Ain't that enough?"
"Mother, I could go two months, I think."
"Then you'd catch your death," said Mrs. Copley. "That inner room is
very chill now. For my part, I do not want to see another picture again
in days and days. My head swims with looking at them. I don't see what
you find in the old things."
Dolly could not have told. She sighed, and it was agreed that they
would drive about the city and its environs next day; Lawrence assuring
them that it was one of the pleasantest towns in Germany. But the next
morning early came the letters from Mr. Copley; one to his wife and one
to Dolly.
Dolly read them both and pondered them; and was unsatisfied. They were
rather cheerful letters; at the same time Mr. Copley informed his wife
and daughter that he could not join them in Dresden; nor at any rate
before they got to Venice. So much was final; but what puzzled and
annoyed Dolly yet more than this delay was the amount of money he
remitted to her. To her, for Mrs. Copley, as an invalid, it was agreed,
should not be burdened with business. So the draft came in the letter
to Dolly; and it was not half large enough. Dolly kept the draft, gave
the letter to her mother to read, and sat in a mazed kind of state,
trying to bring her wits to a focus upon this condition of affairs.
What was her father thinking of? It is one thing to be short of funds
at home, in one's own country and in one's own house; it is bad enough
even there; what is it when one is in a strange land and dependent upon
the shelter of other people's houses, for which an equivalent must be
paid in money? and when one is obliged to travel from one place to
another, and every mile of the way demands another equivalent in money?
Mr. Copley had sent a little, but Dolly knew it would by no means take
them to Venice. What did he intend? or what did he expect her to do?
Apply to Lawrence? Never! No, not under any pressure or combination
that could be brought to bear. He would demand an equivalent too; or
worse, think that it was guaranteed, if she made such an application.
How could Mr. Copley place his child in such a predicament? And then
Dolly's head went down in her hands, for the probable answer crushed
her. He never would, he never could, but for yielding to unworthy
indulgences; becoming entangled in low pleasures; taken possession of
by the influence of unprincipled men. Her father!--Dolly felt as if her
heart would break or her head burst with its burden of pain,--"Oh, a
father never should let his child feel ashamed for him!" was the secret
cry down in the depths of her heart. Dolly would not speak it out ever,
even to herself, but it was there, all the same; and it tortured her,
with a nameless, exquisite torture, under which she mentally writhed,
without being able to get the least relief. Every surge of the old love
and reverence broke on those sharp rocks of pain more hopelessly. "O
father!--O father!" she cried silently, with a pitiful vain appeal
which could never be heard.
And then the practical question came back, taking away her breath. What
was she to do? If they did not stay too long in Dresden they would have
enough money to pay their lodging-bill and go, she calculated, half the
way to Venice. What then? And if Mr. Copley met them in Venice,
according to promise, who would assure her that he would then come
provided with the necessary funds? and what if he failed to come?
Dolly started up, feeling that she could not sit any longer thinking
about it; her nerves were getting into a hard knot. She would not
think; she busied herself in making her mother and herself ready for
their morning's excursion. And Lawrence came with a carriage; and they
set off. It was a lovely day, and certainly the drive was all it had
promised; and Dolly barred off thought, and _would_ look and enjoy and
talk and make others enjoy; so the first part of the day passed very
well. Dolly would make no arrangements for the afternoon, and Mrs.
Copley was able for no more that day.
But when the early dinner was over, Dolly asked Rupert to walk with
her. Rupert was always ready, and gave a delighted assent.
"Are you going out again? and to leave me all alone?" said Mrs. Copley.
"You will be lying down, mother dear; you will not want me; and I have
business on hand, that I must attend to."
"I don't see what business," said Mrs. Copley fretfully; "and you can't
do anything here, in a strange place. You'd better get Mr. St. Leger to
do it for you."
"He cannot do my work," said Dolly lightly.
"But you had better wait and take him along, Dolly. He knows where to
go."
"So do I, mother. I want Rupert this time, and not Mr. St. Leger. You
sleep till I come back."
Dolly had said she meant business, but at first going out things did
not look like it. She went slowly and silently along the streets, not
attending much to what she was passing, Rupert thought; till they
arrived at an open spot from which the view of the river, with the
bridge and parts of the town, could be enjoyed; and there Dolly sat
down on a step, and still without speaking to Rupert, bent forward
leaning on her knees, and seemed to give herself up to studying the
beautiful scene. She saw it; the river, the picturesque bridge, the
wavy, vine-clad hills, the unfamiliar buildings of the city, the villas
scattered about on the banks of the Elbe; she saw it all under a clear
heaven and a sunny light which dressed everything in hues of
loveliness; and her face was fixed the while in lines of grave thought
and gave back no reflection of the beauty. It had beauty enough of its
own, Rupert thought; who, I must say, paid little heed to the landscape
and watched his companion instead. The steady, intent, sweet eyes, how
much grave womanliness was in them; how delicate the colour was on the
cheek, and how tender were the curves of the lips; while the wilful,
clustering curly hair gave an almost childish setting to the features
whose expression was so very un-childish. For it was exceedingly grave.
Dolly did see the lovely landscape, and it made her feel alone and
helpless. There was nothing wonted or familiar; she seemed to herself
somehow cast away in the Saxon capital. And truly she was all alone.
Lawrence she could not apply to, her mother must not even be talked to;
she knew nobody else. Her father had let her come on this journey, had
sent her forth, and now left her unprovided even for the barest
necessities. No doubt he meant that she should be beholden to Mr. St.
Leger, to whom he could return the money by and by. "Or not at all,"
thought Dolly bitterly, "if I would give him myself instead. O father,
could you sell me!" Then came the thought of the entanglements and
indulgences which had brought Mr. Copley to do other things so unlike
himself; and Dolly's heart grew too full. She could not bear it; she
had borne up and fought it out all the morning; now feeling and truth
must have a minute for themselves; her head went down on her hands and
she burst into quiet sobs.
Quiet, but deep. Rupert, looking on in dismayed alarm, saw that this
outbreak of pain had some deep grounded cause; right or wrong, it came
from Dolly's very heart, and her whole nature was trembling. He was
filled with a great awe; and in this awe his sympathy was silent for a
time; but he could not leave the girl to herself too long.
"Miss Dolly," he said in a pause of the sobs, "I thought you were such
a Christian?"
Dolly started, lifted her quivering, tearful face, and looked straight
at him. "Yes," she said,--"what then?"
"I always thought religious folks had something to comfort them."
"Don't think they haven't," said Dolly. But there she broke down again,
and it was a storm of a rain shower that poured from her eyes this
time. She struggled to get the better of it, and as soon as she could
she sat up again, brushing the tears right and left with her hands and
speaking in a voice still half choked.
"Don't think they haven't! If I had not _that_, my heart would just
break and be done with it. But being a Christian does not keep one from
suffering--sometimes." Her voice failed.
"What is the matter? No, I don't mean that you should tell me that;
only--can't I do something?"
"No, thank you; nobody can. Yes, you are doing a great deal, Rupert;
you are the greatest comfort to me. I depend upon you."
Rupert's eyes glistened. He was silent for sheer swelling of heart. He
gulped down something--and went on presently.
"I was thinkin' of something my old mother used to say. I know I've
heard her say it, lots o' times. I don't know what the trouble is,
that's a fact--so maybe I hadn't oughter speak; but _she_ used to say
that nothing could happen to Christians that would do 'em any real
hurt."
"I know," said Dolly, wondering to herself how it could be true; "the
Bible says so."--And then conscience rebuked her. "And it _is_ true,"
she said, lifting up her head; "everything is true that the Bible says,
and that is true; and it says other things"----
"What?" said Rupert; more for her sake, I confess, than for his own.
"It says--'Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is staid
upon Thee;' I was reading it this morning. You see I must be a very
poor Christian, or I should not have doubted a minute. But even a
Christian, and the best, must be sorry sometimes for things he cannot
help," said Dolly.
"Then you were not troubled about yourself just now?" said Rupert.
"Yes, I was! I was indeed, in spite of all those words and a great many
others. I believe I forgot them."
"I should think, if God gives people promises, He would like them to be
trusted," said Rupert "That's what _we_ do."
Dolly looked at him again as if he had said something that struck her;
and then she got up, and taking his arm, set off this time at a
business pace. She knew, she said, where to find what she wanted;
however, she had gone out of her way, and it cost her some trouble and
time to get to the place. It was a store of artists' materials, among
other things; and here Dolly made careful purchases of paper, colours,
and camel's-hair pencils. Rupert was reassured as to a suspicion that
had crossed him, that part of Dolly's trouble might have been caused by
want of means; seeing that she was buying articles of amusement with a
free hand. Then Dolly went straight home.
All the rest of that afternoon she sat drawing. The next two days, the
weather was unfavourable for going out, and she sat at her work
persistently, whenever she was not obliged to be reading to her mother
or attending upon her. The day following the long-planned visit to the
Green vaults was made. In the evening Lawrence came to see them.
"Well, Mrs. Copley; tired?"--he began.
"I don't know which part of me's most tired," said the lady; "my eyes,
or my head, or my feet."
"Did it pay, after all?"
"Pay! I wouldn't have missed it for a year's length of life! It went
ahead of all I ever thought of or dreamt of. It was most like Aladdin's
lamp--or what he saw, I mean, when he went down into fairyland. I
declare, it was just as good."
"Only that you could not put things in your pockets. What would you
have brought, Mrs. Copley, if it had been safe and allowable? The
famous egg?"
"Mercy, no, Mr. St. Leger! I shouldn't have a minute's peace of my
life, for fear I should lose it again."
"That's about how they say the first owner felt. They tell of him, that
a lady once coaxed him to let her have the egg in her hand; and she
kept it in her hand; and the prince forgot; and she drove back to
Dresden with it."
"Where was he, the prince?"
"At some hunting castle, I believe. It was night before he found out
his loss; and then he booted and spurred in hot haste and rode to
Dresden in the middle of the night to fetch the egg from the lady
again."
"What's the use of things that give folks so much trouble?" said Rupert.
"A matter of taste!" said Lawrence, shrugging his shoulders. "But I am
glad to have been through those rooms myself; and I never should, but
for you, Mrs. Copley. I suppose there is hardly the like to be seen
anywhere else."
"What delicious things there were in the ivory room," said Dolly.
"Those drunken musicians, mother, of Albert Dürer; and some of the
vases; how beautiful they were!"
"I did not see the musicians," said Mrs. Copley. "I don't see how
drunken musicians, or drunken anything, could be pretty. Odd taste, I
think."
"Then perhaps you didn't like the piece with the fallen angels?" said
Rupert. "That beat me!"
"How could there be peace with the fallen angels?" Mrs. Copley asked
scornfully. At which, however, there was a great burst of laughter. "I
liked best of all the room where the egg was, I believe. But the silver
room was magnificent."
"I liked the ivory better than the silver, mother."
"Who does it all belong to?" Rupert asked.
"The reigning house of Saxony," Lawrence answered.
"The whole of it?"
"Yes."
"And that big picture gallery into the bargain?"
"Yes."
"That's bein' grasping, for any one family to have so much," was
Rupert's conclusion.
"Well, you see," said Lawrence, "we get the good of it, and they have
the care."
"I don't see how we get the good of it," said Mrs. Copley. "I suppose
if I had one of those golden birds, now, with the eyes of diamonds; or
one of those wonderfully chased silver caskets; I should have enough to
keep me in comfort the rest of my life. _I_ think things are queer,
somehow. One single one of those jewels that lie heaped up there, and I
should want for nothing more in this world. And there they lie and
nobody has 'em."
"Do you want for anything now, mother dear?" asked Dolly. She was busy
at a side table, arranging something in a little frame, and did not
look up from her work.
"I should think I did!" was Mrs. Copley's rejoinder. "What don't I
want, from breath up?"
"Here you have had one wish fulfilled to-day--you have seen the Green
vaults--and now we are going to Venice to fulfil another wish--what
would you have?"
"I don't like to think I am going away from here. I like Dresden best
of all the places we've been in. And I would like to go through the
Green vaults--but why they are called so, I cannot conceive--about once
every month. I would _never_ get tired."
"So you would like to settle in Dresden?" said Lawrence. "I don't think
it would be safe to let you go through the Green vaults often, Mrs.
Copley; you would certainly be tempted too much for your principles.
Miss Dolly, we had better get her away. When _do_ we go, by the by?"
Instead of answering, Dolly rose up and brought him something to look
at; a plain little oval frame of black wood within which was a head in
light water colours.
"Mrs. Copley!" exclaimed Lawrence.
"Is it like?"
"Striking! capital. I'm not much of a judge of painting in general, but
I know a friend's face when I see it; and this is to the life. To the
life! Graceful, too. Where did you get it?"
"I got the paper and the paints at a little shop in--I forget the name
of the _strasse;_--and mother was here to my hand. Ecco!"
"You _don't_ mean you did it?" said Lawrence, while the others crowded
near to look.
"I used to amuse myself with that kind of thing when I was at school,
and I had always a knack at catching likenesses. I am going to try you,
Rupert, next."
"Ah, try me!" cried Lawrence. "Will you? and we will stay in Dresden
till it is done."
"Suppose I succeed," said Dolly softly,--"will you get me orders?"
"Orders?"
"Yes. To paint likenesses, like this, in miniature. I can take ivory,
but I would not waste ivory on this one. I'll do yours on ivory if you
like."
"But _orders?_" said Lawrence, dumbfounded.
"Yes," said Dolly, nodding, "orders; and for as high pay as you think I
can properly ask. Hush! say nothing to mother"----
"Is that like me?" Mrs. Copley asked, after studying the little picture.
"Capitally like you!" Lawrence cried.
"Then I've changed more'n I thought I had, that's all. I don't think I
care about your painting me any more, Dolly, if that's the best you can
do."
"Why, Mrs. Copley," said Lawrence, "it's beautiful. Exactly your turn
of the head, and the delicate fresh colour in your cheeks. It's
perfect!"
"Is it?" said Mrs. Copley in a modified tone. "So that's what you've
been fussing about, Dolly, these two days. Well, take Mr. St. Leger
next. I want to see what you'll make of him. She won't flatter you,"
the lady went on; "that's one thing you may lay your account with; she
won't flatter you. But if we're going away, you won't have much chance;
and, seems to me, we had better settle which way we are going."
Lawrence did not take up this hint. He sat gazing at the little
miniature, which was in its way very lovely. The colours were lightly
laid in, the whole was rather sketchy; but the grace of the delineation
was remarkable, and the likeness was perfect; and Dolly had shown a
true artist's eye in her choice of position and point of view.
"I did not know you had such a wonderful talent," he remarked.
Dolly made no answer.
"You'll do me next?"
"If you like my conditions."
"I do not understand them," he said, looking up at her.
"I want orders," Dolly said almost in a whisper.
"Orders? To paint things like this? For money? Nonsense, Dolly!"
"As you please, Mr. St. Leger; then I will stay here a while and get
work through Frau Wetterhahn. She wants me to paint _her_."
"You never will!"
"I'll try."
"As a favour then?"
Dolly lifted her eyes and smiled at the young man; a smile that utterly
and wholly bewitched him. Wilful? yes, he thought it was wilful, but
sweet and arch, and bright with hope and purpose and conscious
independence; a little defiant, a great deal glad.
"Paint me," said he hastily, "and I'll give you anything you like."
Dolly nodded. "Very well," said she; "then you may talk with mother
about our route."