VENICE.
"You and your friend are the most perfect contrast," remarked Lawrence
as they were driving away. "She is repose in action--and you are
activity in repose."
"That sounds well," Dolly answered after a pause. "I am trying to think
whether there is any meaning in it."
"Certainly; or I hope so. She is placidity itself; one wonders if she
could be anything but placid; while you"----
"Never mind about me," said Dolly hastily. "I am longing to know
whether mother will like Venice."
"Shall you?"
"Oh, I like everything."
Which was the blissful truth. Even anxiety did not prevent its being
the truth; perhaps anxiety even at times put a keener edge upon
enjoyment; Dolly fled from troublesome thoughts to the beauties of a
landscape, the marvels of a piece of mediaeval architecture, the
bewitchment of a bit of painting from an old master's hand; and tasted,
and lingered, and tasted over again in memory, all the beauty and the
marvel and the bewitchment. Lawrence smiled to himself at the thought
of what she would find in Venice.
"There's one thing I don't make out," Rupert broke in.
"Only one?" said Lawrence. But the other was too intent to heed him.
"It bothers me, why the people that could build such a grand church,
couldn't make better houses for themselves."
"Ah!" said Lawrence. "You manage that better in America?"
"If we didn't--I'd emigrate! We don't have such splendid things as that
old pile of stones,"--looking back at the dome,--"but our farmhouses
are a long sight ahead of this country."
"I guess, Rupert," Dolly remarked now, "the men that built the dome did
not build the farmhouses."
"Who built the dome, as you call it, then? But I don't see any dome;
there's only a nest of towers."
"The nobles built the great cathedrals."
"And if you went through one of _their_ houses," said Lawrence, "you
would not think they neglected number one. You never saw anything like
an old German _schloss_ in America."
"Then the nobles had all the money?"
"Pretty much so. Except the rich merchants in some of the cities; and
_they_ built grand churches and halls and the like, and made themselves
happy with magnificence at home in other ways; not architecture."
"I am glad I don't belong here," said Rupert. "But don't the people
know any better?"
"Than what?"
"Than to let the grand folks have it all their own way?"
"They were brought up to it," said Lawrence. "That's just what they
like."
"I expect they'll wake up some day," said Rupert. Which observation
Lawrence did not think worthy of answer; as it was ahead of the time
and of him equally.
They made no unnecessary delay now in going on to Venice. I think
Lawrence had had a secret design to see some one of the great gaming
watering-places; and they had come back to the banks of the Rhine on
purpose. But, however, both Dolly and her mother were in such haste
that he could not induce them by any motive of curiosity or interest to
stop. Dolly indeed had a great horror of those places, and did not
want, she said, to see how beautiful they were. She hoped for her
father's coming to them in Venice; and Mrs. Copley with the nervous
restlessness of an invalid had set her mind on that goal, and would not
look at anything short of it. So they only passed through Wiesbaden and
went on.
But Dolly did want to see Switzerland. When the party came to the lake
of Constance, however, Mrs. Copley declined that proposal. Everybody
went to Switzerland, she said; and she did not care about it. The hope
would have fallen through, only that Lawrence, seeing Dolly's
disappointment, proposed taking a route through the Tyrol.
Comparatively few people went there, he assured Mrs. Copley; and
furthermore, that it was as good a way to Venice as any other. Mrs.
Copley gave consent; and to Dolly's immeasurable and inexpressible
satisfaction through the Tyrol they went. Nothing could spoil it, even
although Mrs. Copley every day openly regretted her concession and
would have taken it back if she could. The one of them was heartily
sorry, the other as deeply contented, when finally the plains of
Lombardy were reached.
It was evening and rainy weather when they came to the last stage of
their journey, and left the carriage of which Mrs. Copley had grown so
weary.
"What sort of a place is this?" she asked presently.
"Not much of a place," said Lawrence. "We will leave it as fast as
possible."
"Well, I should hope so. What are these things? and is that a canal?"
"We should call it a canal in our country," said Rupert; "but _there_
there'd be something at the end of it."
"But what are those black things?" Mrs. Copley repeated. "Do you want
me to get into one of them? I don't like it."
"They are gondolas, mother; Venetian gondolas. We must get into one, if
we want to go to Venice."
"Where is Venice?" said Mrs. Copley, looking over the unpromising
landscape.
"I don't know," said Dolly, laughing, "but Mr. St. Leger knows. We
shall be there in a little while mother, if you'll only get in."
"I don't like boats. And I never saw such boats as those in my life,"
said Mrs. Copley, holding back. "I would rather keep the carriage and
go on as we came; though all my bones are aching. I would rather go in
the carriage."
"But you cannot, mother; there are no carriages here. The way is by
water; and boats are the only vehicles used in Venice. We may as well
get accustomed to them."
"No carriages!"
"Why, surely you knew that before."
"I didn't. I knew there were things to go on the canals; I never knew
they were such forlorn-looking things; but I supposed there were
carriages to go in the streets. Are there no carts either? How is the
baggage going?"
"There are no streets, mother. The ways are all water ways, and the
carriages are gondolas; and it is just as lovely as it can be. Come,
let us try it."
"What are the houses built on?"
"Mother, suppose you get in, and we'll talk as we go along. We had
better get out of the rain; don't you think so? It is falling quite
fast."
"I had rather be in the rain than in the sea. Dolly, if it isn't too
far, I'll walk."
"It is too far, dear mother. You could not do that. It is a long way
yet."
Lawrence stood by, biting his lips between impatience and a sense of
the ridiculous; and withal admiring the tender, delicate patience of
the girl who gently coaxed and reasoned and persuaded, and finally
moved Mrs. Copley to suffer herself to be put in the gondola, on the
forward deck of which Rupert had been helping the gondoliers to stow
some of the baggage. Dolly immediately took her place beside her
mother; the two young men followed, and the gondola pushed off. Mrs.
Copley found herself comfortable among the cushions, felt that the
motion of the gondola was smooth, assured herself that it would not
turn over; finally felt at leisure to make observations again.
"We can't see anything here," she remarked, peering out first on one
side, then on the other.
"There is nothing to see," said Lawrence, "but the banks of the canal."
"Very ugly banks, too. Are we going all the way by water now?"
"All the way, to our hotel door."
"Do the boatmen know where to go?"
"Yes. Have no fear."
"Why don't they have streets in Venice?"
"Mother, don't you remember, the city is built on sand banks, and the
sea flows between? The only streets possible are like this. Could
anything be better? This motion will not fatigue you; and are not your
cushions comfortable?"
"The _sea_, Dolly?" cried Mrs. Copley, catching the word. "You never
told me that. If the sea comes in, it must be rough sometimes."
"No, mother; it is a shallow level for miles and miles, covered at high
tide by a few feet of water, and at low tide bare. Venice is built on
the sand banks of islands which rise above this level."
"What ever made people choose such a ridiculous place to build a city,
when there was good ground enough?"
"The good ground was not safe from enemies, mother, dear. The people
fled to these sand islands for safety."
"Enemies! What enemies?"
So the history had to be further gone into; in the midst of which Mrs.
Copley burst out again.
"I'm so tired of this canal!--just mud banks and nothing else. How much
longer is it to last?"
"We shall come to something else by and by. Have patience," said
Lawrence.
But the patience of three of them was tried, before they fairly emerged
from the canal, and across a broader water saw the lines of building
and the domes of Venice before them.
"You'll soon be out of the gondola now, mother, dear," said Dolly
delightedly. For the rain clouds had lifted a little, and the wide
spread of the lagoon became visible, as well as the dim line of the
city; and Dolly's heart grew big. Mrs. Copley's was otherwise.
"I'll never get into one again," she said, referring to the gondolas.
"I don't like it. I don't feel as if I was anywhere. There's
another,--there's two more. Are they all painted black?"
"It is the fashion of Venetian gondolas."
"Well! there is nothing like seeing for yourself. I always had an idea
gondolas were something romantic and pretty. Is the water deep here?"
"No, very shallow," Lawrence assured her.
"It looks just as if it was deep. I wouldn't have come to Venice if I
had known what a forlorn place it is."
But who shall tell the different impression on Dolly's mind, when the
city was really reached and the gondola entered one of those narrow
water-ways between rows of palaces. The rain had begun to come down
again, it is true; a watery veil hung over the buildings, drops plashed
busily into the canal; there were no beautiful effects of sunlight and
shadow; and Lawrence himself declared it was a miserable coming to
Venice. But Dolly was in a charmed state. She noted eagerly every
strange detail; bridges, boats, people; was hardly sorry for the rain,
she found so much to delight her in spite of it.
"What's our man making such noises for?" cried Mrs. Copley.
"Just to give warning before he turns a corner," Lawrence explained,
"lest he should run against another gondola."
"What would happen then? Is the water deep enough to drown? It would be
horrid water to be drowned in!" said Mrs. Copley shuddering.
"No danger, mother; we are not going to try it," Dolly said soothingly.
"Nobody is ever drowned in Venetian canals," said Lawrence. "They will
carry us safe to our hotel, Mrs. Copley; never fear."
"But hasn't the water risen?" she exclaimed presently.
"It is up to the steps of that house there."
"It is up to all the steps, mother, so that people can get into their
gondolas at their very door; don't you see?"
"It goes ahead of everything!" exclaimed Rupert, who had scarce spoken.
"It's like being in a fairy story."
"I can't see much beside water," said Mrs. Copley. "Water above and
water below. It must be unhealthy. And I thought Venice had such
beautiful old palaces. I don't see any of 'em."
"We have passed several of them," said Lawrence.
"I can see nothing but black walls--except those queer painted sticks;
what are _they_ for?"
"To the gondolas in waiting."
"What are they painted so for?"
"The colours belonging to the family arms."
"Whose family?"
"The family to whom the house belongs."
"Dolly," said Mrs. Copley, "we shall not want to stay here long. We
might go on and try Rome. Mrs. Thayer says spring-time is the best at
Naples."
"It will all look very different, Mrs. Copley, when you see it by
sunlight," said Lawrence. "Wait a little."
Dolly would have enjoyed every inch of the way, if her mother would
have let her. To her eyes the novel strangeness of the scene was
entrancing. Not beautiful, certainly; not beautiful yet; by mist and
rain and darkness how should it be? but she relished the novelty. The
charmed stillness pleased her; the gliding gondolas; the but half
revealed houses and palaces; the odd conveyance in which she herself
was seated; the wonderful water-ways, the strange cries of the
gondoliers. It was not half spoiled for her, as it was; and she trusted
the morning would bring for her mother a better mood.
Something of a better mood was produced that evening when Mrs. Copley
found herself in a warm room, before a good supper. But the next
morning it still rained. Dark skies, thick atmosphere, a gloomy outlook
upon ways where no traveller for mere pleasure was to be seen; none but
people bent on business of one sort or another. Yet everything was
delightful to Dolly's eyes; the novelty was perfect, the
picturesqueness undeniable. What she could see of the lagoon, of the
vessels at anchor, the flying gondolas, the canals and the bridges over
them, and the beautiful Riva, put Dolly in a rapture. Her eye roved,
her heart swelled. "O mother!" she exclaimed, "if father would only
come!"
"What then?" said Mrs Copley dismally. "He would take us away, I hope."
"Oh, but not until we have seen Venice."
"_I_ have seen Venice enough to content me. It is the wettest place I
was ever in my life."
"Why, it rains, mother. Any place is wet when it rains."
"This would be wet at all times. I think the ground must have sunk,
Dolly; people would never have built in the water so. The ground must
have sunk."
"No, mother; I guess not. It has been always just so."
"What made them build here then, when there is all the earth beside?
What did they take to the water for? And what are the houses standing
on, any way?"
"Islands, mother, between which these canals run. I told you before."
"I should think the people hadn't any sense."
And nothing would tempt Mrs. Copley out that day. Of course Dolly must
stay at home too, though she would most gladly have gone about through
the rainy, silent city, in one of those silent gondolas, and feed her
eyes at every step. However, she made herself and made her mother as
comfortable as she could; got out her painting and worked at Rupert's
portrait, which was so successful that Lawrence begged she would begin
upon him at once.
"You know the conditions," she said.
"I accept them. Finish one of me so good as that, and I will send it to
my mother and ask her what she will give for it."
"But not tell her?"----
"Certainly not."
"I find," said Dolly slowly, "that it is a very great compliment for a
lady to paint a gentleman's likeness."
"Why?"
"She has to give so much attention to the lines of his face. I
shouldn't like to paint some people. But I'll do anybody, for a
consideration."
"Your words are not flattering," said Lawrence, "even if your actions
are."
"No," said Dolly. "Compliments are not in my way."
And though she made a beginning upon St. Leger's picture, and studied
the lines of his face accordingly, he did not feel flattered. Dolly's
clear, intelligent eyes looked at him as steadily and as unmovedly as
if he had been a Titian.
The next day brought a change. If Dolly had watched from her balcony
with interest the day before, now she was breathless with what she
found. The sun was shining bright, a breeze was rippling the waters of
the lagoon, and gently fluttering a sail and a streamer here and there;
the beautiful water was enlivened with vessels of all kinds and of many
lands, black gondolas darted about; and the buildings lining the shores
of the lagoon stood to view in their beauty and magnificence and
variety before Dolly's eye; the Doge's palace, here and there a clock
tower, here and there the bridge over a side canal. "O mother!" she
cried, "we have seen nothing like this! nothing like this!"
"I am glad it don't rain at least," said Mrs. Copley. "But it can't be
healthy here, Dolly; it must be damp."
And when they all met at breakfast, and plans for the day began to be
discussed, she declared that she did not want to see anything.
"Not St. Mark's?" said Lawrence.
"What is St. Mark's? It is just a church. I am sure we have seen
churches enough."
"There is only one St. Mark's in the world."
"I don't care if there were a dozen. Is it better than the church we
went to see--at that village near Wiesbaden?"
"Limburg? Much better."
"Well--that will do for me."
"There is the famous old palace of the Doges; and the Bridge of Sighs,
Mrs. Copley, and the prisons."
"Prisons? You don't think I want to go looking at prisons, do you? Why
should I? what's in the prisons?"
"Not much. There has been, first and last, a good deal of misery in
them."
"And you think that is pleasant to look at?"
Dolly could not help laughing, and confessed she would like to see the
prisons.
"Well, you may go," said her mother. "_I_ don't want to."
Lawrence saw that Dolly's disappointment was like to be bitter.
"I'll tell you what I'll show you, Mrs. Copley, if you'll trust
yourself to go out," he said. "I have got a commission from my mother
which must take me into one of the wonderful shops of curiosities here.
You never saw such a shop. Old china, of the rarest, and old furniture
of the most delightful description, and old curiosities of art out of
decayed old palaces, caskets, vases, trinkets, mirrors, and paintings."
Mrs. Copley demurred. "Can we go there in a carriage?"
"No such thing to be had, except a gondola carriage. Come! you will
like it. Why, Mrs. Copley, the streets are no broader than very narrow
alleys. Carriages would be of no use."
Mrs. Copley demurred, but was tempted. The gondola went better by day
than in the night. Once out, Lawrence used his advantage and took the
party first to the Place of St. Mark, where he delighted Dolly with a
sight of the church. Mrs. Copley was too full of something else to
admire churches. She waited and endured, while Dolly's eyes and mind
devoured the new feast given to them. They went into the church, up to
the roof, and came out to the Piazza again.
"It is odd," said Dolly--"I see it is beautiful; I see it is
magnificent; more of both than I can say; and yet, it does not give me
the feeling of respect I felt for that old dome at Limburg."
"But," said Lawrence; "that won't do, you know. St. Mark's and Limburg!
that opinion cannot stand. What makes you say so?"
"I don't know," said Dolly. "I have a feeling that the people who built
that were more in earnest than the people who built this."
"More in earnest? I beg your pardon!" said Lawrence. "What can you
mean? I should say people were in earnest enough here, to judge by the
riches of the place. Just see the adornment everywhere, and the
splendour."
"Yes," said Dolly, "I see. It is partly that. Though there was
adornment, and riches too, at the other place. But the style of it is
different. Those grave old towers at Limburg seemed striving up into
the sky. I don't see any striving here; in the building, I mean."
"Why, there are pinnacles enough," said Lawrence, in comical inability
to fathom her meaning, or answer her.
"Yes," said Dolly; "and domes; but the pinnacles do not strive after
anything, and the cupolas seem to settle down like great extinguishers
upon everything like striving."
Lawrence laughed, and thought in his own mind that Dolly was a little
American, wanting culture, and knowing nothing about architecture.
"What is that great long building?" Mrs. Copley now inquired.
"That, mother?--that is the palace of the Doges. Where is the Bridge of
Sighs?"
They went round to look at it from the Ponte della Paglia. Nearer
investigation had to be deferred, or, Dolly saw, it would be too
literally a bridge of sighs to them that morning. They turned their
backs on the splendours, ecclesiastical and secular, of the Place of
St. Mark, and proceeded to the store of second-hand curiosities St.
Leger had promised Mrs. Copley, the visit to which could no longer be
deferred. Dolly was in a dream of delight all the way. Sunlight on the
old palaces, on the bridges over the canals, on the wonderful carvings
of marbles, on the strange water-ways; sunlight and colour; ay, and
shadow and colour too, for the sun could not get in everywhere. Between
the beauty and picturesqueness, and the wealth of old historic legend
and story clustering about it everywhere, Dolly's dream was entrancing.
"I do not know half enough about Venice," she remarked by the way.
"Rupert, we must read up. As soon as I can get the books," she added
with a laugh.
However, Dolly was susceptible to more than one sort of pleasure; and
when the party had reached the Jew's shop, she was perhaps as much
pleased though not so much engrossed as her mother. For Mrs. Copley,
figuratively speaking, was taken off her feet. This was another thing
from the Green vaults and the treasure chamber of Limburg; here the
wonders and glories were not unattainable, if one had the means to
reach them, that is; and not admiration only, but longing, filled Mrs.
Copley's mind.
"I must have that cabinet," she said. "I suppose we can do nothing till
your father comes, Dolly. Do write and tell him to bring plenty of
money along, for I shall want some. Such a chance one does not have
often in one's life. And that cup! Dolly, I _must_ have that cup; it's
beyond everything I ever did see!"
"Mother, look at this ivory carving."
"That's out of my line," said Mrs. Copley with a slight glance. "I
should call that good for nothing, now. What's the use of it? But, O
Dolly, see this sideboard!"
"You don't want _that_, mother."
"Why don't I? The price is not so very much."
"Think of the expense of getting it home."
"There is no such great difficulty in that. You must write your father,
Dolly, to send if he does not come, at once. I should not like to leave
these things long. Somebody else might see them."
"Hundreds have seen them already, Mrs. Copley," said Lawrence. "There's
time enough."
"I'd rather not trust to that."
"What things do you want, dear mother, seriously? Anything?"
Dolly's voice carried a soft insinuation that her mother's wanting
anything there was a delusion; Mrs. Copley flamed out.
"Do you think I am coming into such a place as this, Dolly, and going
to let the chance slip? I _must_ have several of these things. I'll
tell you. This cup--that isn't much. Now that delicious old china
vase--I do not know what china it is, but I'll find out; there is
nothing like it, I don't believe, in all Boston. I have chosen that
sideboard; _that_ is quite reasonable. You would pay quite as much in
Boston, or in London, for a common handsome bit of cabinet-maker's
work; while this is--just look at it, Dolly; see these drawers, see
these compartments--that's for wine and cordials, you know"----
"We don't want wine and cordials," said Dolly.
"See the convenience and the curiousness of these arrangements; and
look at the inlaying, child! It's the loveliest thing I ever saw in my
life. Oh, I must have that! And it would be a sin to leave this screen,
Dolly. Where ever do you suppose that came from?"
"Eastern work," said Lawrence.
"What eastern work?"
"Impossible for me to say. Might have belonged to the Great Mogul, by
the looks of it. Do you admire _that_, Mrs. Copley?"
"How should it come here?"
"Here? the very place!" said Lawrence. "What was there rare or costly
in the world, that did not find its way to Venice and into the palaces
of the old nobles?"
"But how came it _here?_"
"Into this curiosity shop? The old nobles went to pieces, and their
precious things went to auction; and good Master Judas or Master Levi
bought them."
"And these things were in the palaces of the old nobles?"
"Many of them. Perhaps all of them. I should say, a large proportion."
"That makes them worth just so much the more."
"You need not tell Master Levi that. And you have admired so much this
morning, Mrs. Copley, if you will take my advice, it will be most
discreet to come away without making any offer. Do not let him think
you have any purpose of buying. I am afraid he will put on a fearful
price, if you do."
Whether Lawrence meant this counsel seriously, or whether it was a
feint to get Mrs. Copley safely out of the shop, Dolly was uncertain;
she was grateful to Lawrence all the same. No doubt he had seen that
she was anxious. He had been in fact amused at the elder lady not more
than interested for the younger one; Dolly's delicate attempts to draw
off her mother from thoughts of buying had been so pretty,
affectionate, and respectful in manner, sympathising, and yet steady in
self-denial. Mrs. Copley was hard to bring off. She looked at Lawrence,
doubtful and antagonistic, but his suggestion had been too entirely in
her own line not to be appreciated. Mrs. Copley looked and longed, and
held her tongue; except from exclamations. They got out of the shop at
last, and Dolly made a private resolve not to be caught there again if
she could help it.
In the afternoon she devoted herself to painting Lawrence's picture.
Her first purpose had been to take a profile or side view of him; but
St. Leger declared, if the likeness was for his mother she would never
be satisfied if the eyes did not look straight into her eyes; so Dolly
had to give that point up; and accordingly, while she studied him, he
had full and equal opportunity to study her. It was a doubtful
satisfaction. He could rarely meet Dolly's eyes, while yet he saw how
coolly they perused him, how calmly they studied him as an abstract
thing. He wanted to see a little shyness, a little consciousness, a
little wavering, in those clear, wise orbs; but no! Dolly sat at her
work and did it as unconcernedly as if she were five years old, to all
appearance; with as quiet, calm poise of manner and simplicity of
dignity as if she had been fifty. But how pretty she was! Those eyes of
hers were such an uncommon mingling of childhood and womanhood, and so
lovely in cut and colour and light; and the mouth was the most mobile
thing ever known under that name, and charming in every mood of rest or
movement. The whole delicate face, the luxuriant brown hair, the little
hands, the supple, graceful figure, Lawrence studied over and over
again; till he felt it was not good for him.
"Painting a person must make you well acquainted with him," he began
after a long silence, during which Dolly had been very busy.
"Outside knowledge," said Dolly.
"Does not the outside always tell something of what is within?"
"Something," Dolly allowed in the same tone.
"What do you see in me?"
"Mrs. St. Leger will know, when she gets this."
"What you see _in_ me?"
"Well, no--perhaps not."
"Couldn't you indulge me and tell me?"
"Why should I?"
"Out of kindness."
"I do not know whether it would be a kindness," said Dolly slowly.
"You see, Dolly, a fellow can't stand everything for ever! I want to
know what you think of me, and what my chances are. Come! I've been
pretty patient, it strikes me. Speak out a bit."
Mrs. Copley was lying down to rest, and Rupert had left the room. The
pair were alone.
"What do you want me to say, Mr. St. Leger?"
"Tell me what you see in me."
"What would be the good of that? I see an Englishman, to begin with."
"You _see_ that in me?"
"Certainly."
"I am glad, but I didn't know it. Is that an advantage in your eyes?"
"Am I an Englishwoman?"
"Not a bit of it," said Lawrence, "nor like it. I never saw an English
girl the least like you. But you might grow into it, Dolly, don't you
think?"
She lifted her face for an instant and gave him a flashing glance of
fun.
"Won't you try, Dolly?"
"I think I would just as lieve be an American."
"Why? America is too far off."
"Very good when you get there," said Dolly contentedly.
"But not better than we have on our side?"
"Well, you have not all the advantages on your side," said Dolly, much
occupied with her drawing.
"Go on, and tell me _what_ we have not."
"I doubt the wisdom."
"I beg the favour."
"It would not please you. In the first place, you would not believe me.
In the second place, you would reckon an advantage what I reckon a
disadvantage."
"What _do_ you mean?" said Lawrence, very curious and at the same time
uneasy. Dolly tried to get off, but he held her to the point. At last
Dolly spoke out.
"Mr. St. Leger, women have a better time in my country."
"A better time? Impossible. There are no homes in the world where wives
and daughters are better cared for or better loved. None in the world!"
"Ah," said Dolly, "they are too well cared for."
"How do you mean?"
"Too little free."
"Free?" said Lawrence. "Is _that_ what you want?"
"And not quite respected enough."
"Dolly, you bewilder me. What ever did you see or hear to make you
think our women are not respected?"
"I dare say it is a woman's view," said Dolly lightly. But Lawrence
eagerly begged her to explain or give an instance of what she meant.
"I have not seen much, you know," said Dolly, painting away. "But I
heard a gentleman once, at his own dinner-table, and when there was
company present--I was not the only visitor--I heard him tell his wife
that the _soup was nasty_."
And Dolly glanced up to see how Lawrence took it. She judiciously did
not tell him that the house was his own father's, and the gentleman in
question Mr. St. Leger himself. Lawrence was silent at first. I presume
the thing was not so utterly unfamiliar as that he should be much
shocked; while he did perceive that here was some difference of the
point of view between Dolly's standpoint and his own, and was not ready
to answer. Dolly glanced up at him significantly: still Lawrence did
not find words.
"That didn't mean anything!" at last he said. Dolly glanced at him
again.
"I suppose the soup _wasn't_ good. Why not say so?"
"No reason why he should not say so, at a proper time and place."
"It didn't mean any harm, Dolly."
"I suppose not."
"Then what's the matter?"
"It is not the way _we_ do," said Dolly. "In America, I mean. Not when
we are polite."
"Do you think husband and wife ought to be polite to each other--in
that way?"
"In what way?"
"That they should not call things by their right names?"
Here Dolly lifted her sweet head and laughed; a merry, ringing,
musical, very much amused laugh.
"Ah, you see you are an Englishman," she said. "That is the way you
will speak to your wife."
"I will never speak to _you_, Dolly, in any way you don't like."
"No" said Dolly gravely, and returning to her work.
"Aren't you ever going to give me a little bit of encouragement?" said
he. "I have been waiting as patiently as I could. May I tell my mother
who did the picture, when I send it?"
"Say it was done by a deserving young artist, in needy circumstances;
but no names."
"But that's not true, Dolly. Your father is as well off as ever he was;
his embarrassments are only temporary. He is not in needy
circumstances."
"I said nothing about my father. Here, Mr. St. Leger--come and look at
it."
The finished likeness was done with great truth and grace. Dolly's
talent was an extraordinary one, and had not been uncultivated. She had
done her best in the present instance, and the result was a really
delicious piece of work. Lawrence saw himself given to great advantage;
truly, delicately, characteristically. He was delighted.
"I will send it right off," he said. "Mamma has nothing of me half so
good."
"Ask her what she thinks it is worth."
"And I want you to paint a duplicate of this, for me; for myself."
"A duplicate!" cried Dolly. "I couldn't."
"Another likeness of me then, in another view. Set your own price."
"But I shall never make my fortune painting you," said Dolly. "You must
get me some other customers; that is the bargain."
"What notion is this, Dolly? It is nonsense between me and you. Why not
let things be settled? Let us come to an understanding, and give up
this ridiculous idea of painting for money;--if you are in earnest."
"I am always in earnest. And we are upon an excellent understanding,
Mr. St. Leger. And I want money. The thing is as harmonious as
possible."