AT THE VILLA.
The place inhabited by the Thayers was a regular Italian villa. It had
not been at all in order that suited English notions of comfort, or
American either, when they moved in; but they had painted and matted
and furnished, and filled the rooms with pretty things, pictures and
statues and vases and flowers; till it looked now quite beautiful and
festive. Its situation was perfect. The house stood high, on the shore
overlooking the sea, with a full view of Vesuvius, and it was
surrounded with a paradise of orange-trees, fig-trees, pomegranates,
olives, oaks and oleanders, with roses and a multitude of other
flowers; in a wealth of sweetness and luxuriance of growth that
northern climes know nothing of. The reception the visitors met with
was joyous.
"I am so glad you are come!" cried Christina, as she carried off Dolly
through the hall to her particular room. "That bad boy, Sandie, has not
reported yet; but he will come; and then we will go everywhere. Have
you been everywhere already?"
"I have been nowhere. I have staid with mother, and she wanted to be
quiet."
"Well, she can be quiet now with my mother; they can take care of each
other. And you have not been to Capri?"
"No."
"Just think of it! How delightful! You have not seen the Grotta
azzurra?"
"I have seen nothing."
"Nor the grotto of the Sirens? You have seen _that?_ It was so near."
"No, I have not. I have been nowhere; only with mother to gather ferns
and flowers in the dells around Sorrento. We used to take mother in a
donkey cart--a calessino--to the edge of the side of the dell, and then
help her down, and get loads of flowers and ferns. It was very
pleasant."
"I wish Sandie would only come--the tiresome fellow! There's no
counting on him. But he will come. He said he would if he could, and he
can of course. I suppose you have not visited Paestum yet then?"
"I believe father went there. We did not."
"Nor we, yet. I don't care so much--only I like to keep going--but
father is crazy to see the ruins. You know the ruins are wonderful. Do
you care for ruins?"
"I believe I do," said Dolly, smiling, "when the ruins are of something
beautiful. And those Greek temples--oh, I _should_ like to see them."
"I would rather see beautiful things when they are perfect; not in
ruins; ruins are sad, don't you think so?"
"I suppose they ought to be," said Dolly, laughing now. "But somehow,
Christina, I believe the ruins give me more pleasure than if they were
all new and perfect--or even old and perfect. It is a perverse taste, I
suppose, but I do."
"Why? They are not so handsome in ruins."
"They are lovelier."
"Lovely!--for old ruins! I can understand papa's enthusiasm; he's a
kind of antiquity worshipper; but you--and 'lovely!'"
"And interesting, Christina. Ruins tell of so much; they are such grand
books of history, and witnesses for things gone by. But beautiful--oh
yes, beautiful beyond all others, if you talk of buildings. What is St.
Peter's, compared to the Colosseum?"
Christina stared at her friend. "What is St. Peter's? A most
magnificent work of modern art, I should say; and you compare it to a
tumbledown old bit of barbarism. That's _too_ like Sandie. Do you and
your friend agree as harmoniously as Sandie and I? We ought to
exchange."
"I have no 'friend,' as you express it," said Dolly, pulling her
wayward, curling locks into a little more order. "Mr. St. Leger is
nothing to me--if you are speaking of him."
"I am sure, if he told the truth, he would not say that of you," said
Christina, looking with secret admiration at the figure before her. It
was a rare kind of beauty, not of the stereotyped or formal sort; like
one of the dainty old vases of alabaster, elegant in form and delicate
and exquisite in chiselling and design, with a pure inner light showing
through. That was not the comparison in Christina's mind, and indeed
she made none; but women's eyes are sometimes sharp to see feminine
beauty; and she confessed that Dolly's was uncommon, not merely in
degree but in kind. There was nothing conventional about it; there
never had been; her curling hair took a wayward way of its own; her
brown eyes had a look of thoughtfulness mingled with childlike
innocence; they always had it more or less; now the wisdom was more
sweet and the innocence more spiritual. Her figure and her manner were
all in harmony, wearing unconscious grace and a very simple, free
dignity.
"We cannot go to Paestum at this season of the year, they say,"
Christina began again, at a distance from her thoughts; "but one _can_
go to the Punta di Campanella and Monte San Costanzo; and as soon as
Sandie comes, we will. We will wait a day for him first."
Dolly was quite willing to wait for him; for, to tell the truth, one of
her pleasures in the thought of this visit had been the possibility of
seeing Mr. Shubrick again. She did not say so, however; and the two
girls presently went back to the hall. This was a luxurious apartment,
occupying the centre of the house; octagonal, and open to the outer
world both at front and back. Warm and yet fresh air was playing
through it; the odours of flowers filled it; the most commodious of
light chairs and settees furnished it; and scattered about the wide,
delicious space were the various members of the party. Mrs. Thayer and
Mrs. Copley had been sitting together; just now, as the girls entered,
Mrs. Thayer called St. Leger to her.
"I am delighted to see you here, Mr. St. Leger," she said graciously.
"You know your father was a very old friend of mine."
"That gives me a sort of claim to your present kindness," said St.
Leger.
"You might put in a claim to kindness anywhere," returned the lady.
"Don't you get it, now, if you tell the truth?"
"I have no reason to complain--in general," said the young man, smiling.
"You are a little like your father. He was another. We were great
cronies when I was a girl. In fact, he was an old beau of mine. We used
to see a vast deal of each other;--flirting, I suppose you would call
it; but how are young people to get along without flirting? I liked him
very much, for I always had a fancy for handsome men; and if you ask
him, he will tell you that I was handsome too at that time. Oh, I was!
you may look at me and be incredulous; but I was a belle in those days;
and I had a great many handsome men around me, and some not handsome.
....Was I English? No. You don't understand how I could have seen so
much of your father. Well, never doubt a story till you have heard the
whole of it. I was an American girl; but my father and mother were both
dead, and I was sent to England, to be brought up by an aunt, who was
the nearest relation I had in the world. She had married an Englishman
and settled in England."
"Then we may claim you," said Lawrence. "To all intents and purposes
you are English."
"Might have been," returned Mrs. Thayer. "The flirtation ran very high,
I can tell you, between your father and me. He was a poor man then. I
understand he has nobly recovered from that fault. Is it true? People
say he is made of gold."
"There is no lack of the material article," Lawrence admitted.
"No. Well, the other sort we know he had, or this would never be true
of him now. I did not look so far ahead then. There is no telling what
would have happened, but for a little thing. Just see how things go. I
might have married in England, and all my life would have been
different; and then came along Mr. Thayer. And the way I came to know
him was this. A cousin of mine in America was going to be married, and
her friend was a friend of Mr. Thayer. Mr. Thayer was coming over to
England, and my cousin charged him with a little piece of wedding cake
in white paper to bring to me. Just that little white packet! and Mr.
Thayer brought it, and we saw one another, and the end was, I have
lived my life on the other side instead of on this side."
"It's our loss, I am sure," said St. Leger civilly.
"You are too polite to say it is mine, but I know you think so. Perhaps
it is. At any rate, I was determined, and am determined, that my
daughter shall see and choose for herself which hemisphere she will
live in. What are you doing in Italy?"
"What everybody does in Italy, looking at the old and enjoying the new."
"Ah, that's what it is!" said Mrs. Thayer approvingly. "That is what
one enjoys. But my husband is one of the other sort. We divide Italy
between us. He looks at the marbles, and I eat the pomegranates. Do you
like pomegranates?--No? I delight in them, and in everything else fresh
and new and sweet and acid. But what I want to know, Mr. St. Leger,
is--how come these old ruins to be so worth looking at? Hasn't the
human race made progress? Can't we raise as good buildings now-a-days,
and as good to see, as those old heathen did?"
"I suppose we can, when we copy their work exactly."
"But how is that? Christians ought to do better work than heathens. I
do not understand it."
"No," said St. Leger, "I do not understand it."
"Old poetry--that's what they study so much at Oxford and Cambridge,
and everywhere else;--and old pictures, and old statues. I think the
world ought to grow wiser as it grows older. I believe it is prejudice.
There's my husband crazy to go to Paesturn,--I'm glad he can't; the
marshes or something are so unhealthy; but I'm going to arrange for you
an expedition to the Punta--Punta di something--the toe of the boot,
you know; it's delightful; you go on donkeys, and you have the most
charming views, and what I know you like better than anything,--the
most charming opportunities for flirtation."
"It will have to be Miss Thayer and I then," said Lawrence. "Miss
Copley does not know how."
"Nonsense! Don't tell me. Every girl does. She has her own way, I
suppose. Makes it more piquant--and _piquing_."
Lawrence looked over towards the innocent face, so innocent of anything
false, he knew, or even of anything ambiguous; a face of pure womanly
nature, childlike in its naturalness, although womanly in its gravity.
Perhaps he drew a swift comparison between a man's chances with a face
of that sort, and the counter advantages of Christina's more
conventional beauty. Mr. Thayer had sat down beside Dolly and was
drawing her into talk.
"You are fond of art, Miss Copley. I remember we met you first in the
room of the dying gladiator, in the Capitoline Museum. But everybody
has to go to see the dying gladiator and the rest."
"I suppose so," said Dolly.
"I remember, though, I thought you were enjoying it."
"Oh, I was."
"I can always find out whether people really enjoy things. How many
times did you go to see the gladiator? Let me see,--you were in Rome
three months?"
"Nearer four."
"Four! Well, and how many times did you see the gladiator?"
"I don't quite know. Half a dozen times, I think. I went until I had
got it by heart; and now I can look at it whenever I like."
"Humph!" said Mr. Thayer. "The only thing Christina wanted to see a
second time was the mosaics; and those she did not get by heart
exactly, but brought them away, a good many of them, bodily. And have
you developed any taste for architecture during your travels?"
"I take great pleasure in some architecture," said Dolly.
"May I ask what instances? I am curious to see how our tastes
harmonise."
"Ah, but I know nothing about it," said Dolly. "I am entirely--or
almost entirely--ignorant; and you know and understand."
"'Almost entirely?'" said Mr. Thayer. "You have studied the subject?"
"A little," said Dolly, smiling and blushing.
"Do favour me. I am desirous to know what you have seen that
particularly pleased you."
"The cathedral at Limburg."
"Limburg. Oh--ah! yes, it was _there_ we first met you. I was thinking
it was in the museum of the Capitol. Limburg. You liked that?"
"Very much!"
"Romanesque--or rather Transition."
"I do not know what Romanesque is, or Transition either."
"Did you notice the round arches and the pointed arches?"
"I do not remember. Yes, I do remember the round arches; but I was
thinking rather of the effect of the whole."
"The church at Limburg shows a mixture of the round Romanesque and the
pointed Gothic; Gothic was preparing; that sort of thing belongs to the
first half of the thirteenth century. Well, that bespeaks very good
taste. What next would you mention, Miss Dolly?"
"I don't know; I have enjoyed so many things. Perhaps I should say the
Doge's palace at Venice."
"Ha! the Doge's palace, hey? You like the pink and white marble."
"Don't you, Mr. Thayer?"
"That's not what one looks for in architecture. What do you say to St.
Peter's?"
"You will find a great deal of fault with me. I did not care for it."
"Not? It is Michael Angelo's work."
"But knowing the artist is no reason for admiring the work," said
Dolly, smiling.
"You are very independent! St. Peter's! Not to admire St. Peter's!"
"I admired the magnificence, and the power, and a great many things;
but I did not like the building. Not nearly so much as some others."
"Now I wish we could go to Paestum, and see what you would say to pure
old Greek work. But it would be as much as our lives are worth, I
suppose."
"Yes, Mr. Thayer," his wife cried; "don't talk about Paestum; they are
going to-morrow to the point."
"The point? what point? the coast is full of points."
"The Punta di Campanella, papa," said Christina.
"I thought you were going to Capri?"
"We'll keep Capri till Sandie comes. He would be a help on the water.
All our marine excursions we will keep until Sandie comes. I only hope
he'll be good and come."
The very air seemed full of pleasant anticipations; and Dolly would
have been extremely happy; was happy; until on going in to dinner she
saw the wineglasses on the table, and bottles suspiciously cooling in
water. Her heart sank down, down. If she had had time and had dared,
she would have remonstrated; but yet what could she say? She knew, too,
that the wine at Mr. Thayer's table, like everything else on it, would
be of the best procurable; better and more alluring than her father
could get elsewhere. In her secret heart there was a bitter unspoken
cry of remonstrance. O friends! O friends!--she was ready to say,--do
you know what you are doing? You are dropping sweet poison into my
life; bitter poison; deadly poison, where you little think it; and you
do it with smiles and coloured glasses! She could hardly eat her
dinner. She saw with indescribable pain and a sort of powerless
despair, how Mr. Copley felt the license of his friend's house and
example, and how the delicacy of the vintages offered him acted to dull
his conscience; Mr. Thayer praising them and hospitably pressing his
guest to partake. He himself drank very moderately and in a kind of
mere matter-of-fact way; it was part of the dinner routine; and St.
Leger tasted, as a man who knows indeed what is good, but also makes it
a matter of no moment; no more than his bread or his napkin. Mr. Copley
drank with eager gusto, and glass after glass; even, Dolly thought, in
a kind of bravado. And this would go on every day while their visit
lasted; and perhaps not at dinner only; there were luncheons, and for
aught she knew, suppers. Dolly's heart was hot within her; so hot that
after dinner she could not keep herself from speaking on the subject to
Christina. Yet she must begin as far from her father as possible. The
two girls were sitting on the bank under a fig-tree, looking out on the
wonderful spectacle of the bay of Naples at evening.
"There is a matter I have been thinking a great deal about lately," she
said, with a little heartbeat at her daring.
"I daresay," laughed Christina. "That is quite in your way. Oh, I do
wish Sandie would come! He _ought_ to be here."
"This is no laughing matter, Christina. It is a serious question."
"You are never anything but serious, are you?" said her friend. "If you
have a fault, it is that, Dolly. You don't laugh enough."
Dolly was silent and swallowed her answer; for what did Christina know
about it? _She_ had not to watch over her father; her father watched
over her. Presently she began again; her voice had a little strain in
its tone.
"This is something for you and me to consider; for you and me, and
other women who can do anything. Christina, did you ever think about
the use of wine?"
"Wine?" echoed Miss Thayer, a good deal mystified. "The use of it? I
don't know any use of it, except to give people, gentlemen, something
to talk of at dinner. Oh, it is good in sickness, I suppose. What are
you thinking of?"
"I am thinking of the harm it does," said Dolly in a low voice.
"Harm? What harm? You are not one of those absurd people I have heard
of, who cut down their apple-trees for fear the apples will be made
into cider?"
"I have no apple-trees to cut down," said Dolly. "But don't you know,
Christina, that there is such a thing as drinking too much wine? and
what comes of it?"
"Not among our sort of people," said Christina. "I know there are such
things as drunkards; but they are in the lower classes, who drink
whisky and gin. Not among gentlemen."
Dolly choked, and turned her face away to hide the eyes full of tears.
"Too much wine?" Christina repeated. "One may have too much of
anything. Too much fire will burn up your house; yet fire is a good
thing."
"That's only burning up your house," said Dolly sorrowfully.
"_Only_ burning up your house! Dolly Copley, what are you thinking of?"
"I am thinking of something infinitely worse. I am thinking of a man
losing his manhood; of families losing their stay and their joy,
because the father, or the husband, or the brother, has lost
himself!--gone down below his standing as an intellectual
creature;--become a mere animal, given up to low pleasures which make
him sink lower and lower in the scale of humanity. I am thinking of
_his_ loss and of _their_ loss, Christina. I am thinking of the
dreadfulness of being ashamed of the dearest thing you have, and the
way hearts break under it. And don't you know that when the love of
wine and the like gets hold of a person, it is stronger than he is? It
makes a slave of him, so that he cannot help himself."
Christina's thoughts made a rapid flight over all the persons for whom
Dolly could possibly fear such a fate, or in whom she could possibly
have seen such an example. But Mr. St. Leger had the clear, fresh
colour of perfect health and condition; Mr. Copley loved wine
evidently, but drank it like a gentleman, and gave, to her eyes, no
sign of being enslaved. What could Dolly be thinking of? Her mother was
out of the question.
"I don't make out what you are at, Dolly," she said. "Such things do
not happen in our class of society."
"Yes, they do. They happen in every class. And the highest ought to set
an example to the lowest."
"No use if they did. Anyhow, Dolly, it is nothing you and I can meddle
with."
"I think we ought not to have wine on our tables."
"Mercy! Everybody does that."
"It is offering temptation."
"To whom? Our friends are not that sort of people."
"How do you know but they may be? How can you tell but the taste or the
tendency may be where you least think of it?"
"You don't mean that Mr. St. Leger has anything of that sort?" said
Christina, facing round upon her.
"No more than other people, so far as I know. I am speaking in general,
Christina. The thing is in the world; and we, I do think, we whose
example would influence people,--I suppose everybody's example
influences somebody else--I think we ought to do what we can."
"And not have wine on our dinner-tables!"
"Would that be so very dreadful?"
"It would be very inconvenient, I can tell you, and very disagreeable.
Fancy! no wine on the table. No one could understand it. And how our
dinner-tables would look, Dolly, with the wine-glasses and the
decanters taken off! And then, what would people talk about? Wine is
such a help in getting through with a dinner-party. People who do not
know anything else, and cannot talk of anything else, can taste wine;
and have plenty to say about its colour, and its _bouquet_, and its
age, and its growth, and its manufacture, and where it can be got
genuine, and how it can be adulterated. And so one gets through with
the dinner quite comfortably."
"I should not want to see people who knew no more than that," said
Dolly.
"Oh, but you must."
"Why?"
"And it does not do to be unfashionable."
"Why, Christina! Do you recollect what is said in the epistle of
John--'The world knoweth us not'? I do not see how a Christian _can_ be
fashionable. To be fashionable, one must follow the ways of the world."
"Well, we must follow some of them," cried Christina, flaring up, "or
people will not have anything to do with you."
"That's what Christ said,--'Because ye are not of the world, ...
therefore the world hateth you.'"
"Do you like to have people hate you?"
"No; but rather that than have Jesus say I do not belong to Him."
"Dolly," said Christina, "you are _very_ high-flown! That might just do
for one of Sandie's speeches."
"I am glad Mr. Shubrick is such a wise man."
"He's just a bit too wise for me. You see, I am not so superior. I
should like to take him down a peg. And I--will if he don't come soon."
He did not come in time for the next day's pleasure-party; so the young
ladies had only Mr. St. Leger and Mr. Thayer to accompany them. Mrs.
Copley "went on no such tramps," she said; and Mrs. Thayer avowed she
was tired of them. The expedition took all day, for they went early and
came back late, to avoid the central heat of midday. It was an
extremely beautiful little journey; the road commanding a long series
of magnificent views, almost from their first setting out. They went on
donkeys, which was a favourite way with Dolly; at Massa they stopped
for a cup of coffee; they climbed Monte San Costanzo; interviewed the
hermit and enjoyed the prospect; and finally settled themselves for as
pleasant a rest as possible among the myrtles on the solitary point of
the coast. From here their eyes had a constant regale. The blue
Mediterranean spread out before them, Capri in the middle distance, and
the beauties of the shore nearer by, were an endless entertainment for
Dolly. Christina declared she had seen it all before; Mr. Thayer found
nothing worthy of much attention unless it had antiquities to be
examined; and the fourth member of the party was somewhat too busy with
human and social interests to leave his attention free.
Mr. St. Leger had been now for a long time very unobtrusive in his
attentions to Dolly, and Dolly partly hoped he had given her up; but
that was a mistake. Perhaps he thought it was only a matter of time,
for Dolly to get acquainted with him and accustomed to him; perhaps he
thought himself sure of his game, if the fish had only line enough.
Having the powerful support of Dolly's father and mother, all worldly
interests on the side of his suit, a person and presence certainly
unobjectionable, to say the least; how could a girl like Dolly, in the
long run, remain unimpressed? He would give her time. Meanwhile, Mr.
St. Leger was enjoying himself; seeing her daily and familiarly; he
could wait comfortably. It would appear by all this that Lawrence was
not an ardent man; but constitutions are different; there is an ardour
of attack, and there is an ardour of persistence; and the latter, I
think, belonged to him. Besides, he had sense enough to see that a too
eager pressing of his cause with Dolly would ruin all. So he had
waited, not discontentedly, and bided his time. Now, however, he began
to think it desirable on many accounts to have the question decided.
Mr. Copley would not stay much longer in Italy, Lawrence was certain,
and the present way of life would come to an end; if his advantages
were ever to bear fruit, it should be ripe now. Moreover, one or two
other, and seemingly inconsistent, considerations came in. Lawrence
admired Miss Thayer. Her beauty was even more striking, to his fancy,
than Dolly's; if it were also more like other beauties he had seen. She
had money too, and Dolly had none. Truly, Mr. St. Leger had enough of
his own; but when did ever a man with enough not therefore desire more?
He admired Christina very much; she suited him; if Dolly should prove
after all obdurate, here was his chance for making himself amends.
Cool! for an ardent lover; but Mr. St. Leger _was_ of a calm
temperament, and these suggestions did come into his mind back of his
liking for Dolly.
This liking was strong upon him the day of the excursion to the Punta
di Campanella. Of necessity he was Christina's special attendant, Mr.
Thayer being Dolly's. Many girls would not have relished such an
arrangement, Lawrence knew; his sisters would not. And Dolly was in an
acme of delight. Lawrence watched her whenever they came near each
other, and marvelled at the sweet, childish-womanish face. It was in a
ripple of pleasure; the brown, considerate eyes were sparkling, roving
with quick, watchful glances over everything, and losing as few as
possible of the details of the way. Talking to Mr. Thayer now and then,
Lawrence saw her, with the most innocent, sweet mouth in the world; her
smile and that play of lip and eye bewitched him whenever he got a
glimpse of it. The play of Christina's features was never so utterly
free, so absent from thought of self, so artless in its fun. Now and
then, too, there came the soft, low ring of a clear voice, in laughter
or talking, bearing the same characteristics of a sweet spirit and a
simple heart; and yet, when in repose, Dolly's face was strong in its
sense and womanliness. The combination held Mr. St. Leger captive. I do
not know how he carried on his needful attentions to his companion;
with a mechanical necessity, I suppose; when all the while he was
watching Dolly and contrasting the two girls. He was not such a fool as
not to know which indications promised him the best wife; or if not
him, the man who could get her. And he resolved, if a chance offered,
he would speak to Dolly that very day. For here was Christina, if his
other hope failed. He _was_ cool; nevertheless, he was in earnest.
They had climbed up Monte San Costanzo and admired the view. They had
rested, and enjoyed a capital lunch among the myrtles on the point. It
was when they were on their way home in the afternoon, and not till
then, that the opportunity presented itself which he had wished for. On
the way home, the order of march was broken up. Christina sometimes
dropped St. Leger to ride with her father; sometimes called Dolly to be
her companion; and at last, declaring that she did not want Mr. St.
Leger to have a sense of sameness about the day, she set off with her
father ahead, begging Dolly to amuse the other gentleman.
Which Dolly made not the least effort to do. The scenery was growing
more lovely with every minute's lengthening shadows; and she rode
along, giving all her attention to it, not making to Mr. St. Leger even
the remarks she might have made to Mr. Thayer. The change of companions
to her was not welcome. St. Leger found the burden of conversation must
lie upon him.
"We have not seen much of each other for a long time," he began.
"Only two or three times a day," said Dolly.
"And you think that is enough, perhaps!" said Lawrence hastily.
"Don't you think more would have a tendency to produce what Christina
calls a 'sense of sameness'?" said Dolly, turning towards him a face
all dimpled with fun.
"That is according to circumstances. The idea is not flattering. But,
Miss Dolly," said Lawrence, pulling himself up, "in all this
while--these months--that we have been travelling together, we have had
time to learn to know each other pretty well. _You_ must have been able
to make up your mind about me."
"Which part of your character?"
"Miss Dolly," said Lawrence with some heat, "you know what I mean."
"Do I? But I did not know that I had to make up my mind about anything
concerning you; I thought that was done long ago."
"And you do not like me any better now than you did then?"
"Perhaps I do," said Dolly slowly. "I always liked you, Mr. St. Leger,
and I had cause. You have been a very kind friend to us."
"For your sake, Dolly."
"I am sorry for that," she said.
"And I have waited all this time in the hope that you would get
accustomed to me, and your objections would wear away. You know what
your father and mother wish concerning us. Does their wish not weigh
with you?"
"No," said Dolly very quietly. "This is my affair, not theirs."
"It is their affair so far as your interests are involved. And I do not
wish to praise myself; but you know they think that those interests
would be secured by a marriage with me. And I believe I could make you
happy, Dolly."
Dolly shook her head. "How could you?" she said. "We belong to two
opposite parties, and are following two different lines of life. You
would not like my way, and I should not like yours. How could either of
us be happy?"
"Even granting all that," said Lawrence, "why should you not bear with
my peculiarities, and I with yours, and neither be the worse? That is
very frequently done."
"Is it? I do not think it ought to be done."
"Let us prove that it can be. I will never interfere with you, Dolly."
"Yes, you would," said Dolly, dimpling all over again. "Do you think
you would make up your mind to have no wine in your cellar or on your
table? Take that for one thing. I should have no wine on mine."
"That's a crotchet of yours," said he, smiling at her: he thought if
_this_ were all, the thing might be managed.
"That is only one thing, Mr. St. Leger," Dolly went on very gravely
now. "I should be unfashionable in a hundred ways, and you would not
like that. I should spend money on objects and for causes that you
would not care about nor agree to. I am telling you all this to
reconcile you to doing without me."
"Your refusal is absolute, then?"
"Yes."
"You would not bring up these extraneous things, Dolly, if you had any
love for me."
"I do not know why that should make any difference. It might make it
hard."
"Then you _have_ no love for me?"
"I am afraid not," said Dolly gently. "Not what you mean. And without
that, you would not wish for a different answer from me."
"Yes, I would!" said he. "All that would come; but you know your own
business best."
Dolly thought she did, and the proposition remained uncontroverted.
Therewith the discourse died; and the miles that remained were made in
unsocial silence. Dolly feared she had given some pain, but doubted it
could not be very great; and she was glad to have the explanation over.
Perhaps the pain was more than she knew, although Lawrence certainly
was not a desperate wooer; nevertheless, he was disappointed, and he
was mortified, and mortification is hard to a man. For the matter of
that, it is hard to anybody. It was not till the villa occupied by the
Thayers was close before them that he spoke again.
"Do you expect to stay much longer in Italy?"
"I am afraid not," Dolly answered.
"I have reason to think Mr. Copley will not. Indeed, I know as much. I
thought you might like to be informed."
Dolly said nothing. Her eyes roved over the beautiful bay, almost with
an echo of Eve's "Must I then leave thee, Paradise?" in her heart. The
smoke curling up from Vesuvius caught the light; little sails skimming
over the sea reflected it; the sweetness of thousands of roses and
orange blossoms, and countless other flowers, filled all the air; it
was a time and a scene of nature's most abundant and beautiful bounty.
Dolly checked her donkey, and for a few minutes stood looking; then
with a brave determination that she would enjoy it all as much as she
could while she had it, she went into the house.