UNDER AN OAK TREE.
More than a week passed, and Mr. Copley was steadily convalescent. He
had not left his room yet, but he needed no longer the steady
attendance of some one bound to minister to his wants. Dolly was
expecting now every day to hear Mr. Shubrick say he must bid them
good-bye; and she took herself a little to task for caring so much
about it. What was Sandie Shubrick to her, that she should feel such a
heart-sinking at the prospect of his departure? It was a very wonderful
thing that he, Christina Thayer's Mr. Shubrick, should have come to
help this little family in its need; it was very astonishing that he
should be there even then, waiting on Dolly Copley's sick father; let
her be satisfied with this so unexpected good, and bid him farewell as
easily as she had bid him welcome. But Dolly could not. How could she?
she said to herself. And every time she saw Mr. Shubrick she feared
lest the dreaded words would fall from his lips. So when he came to her
one afternoon when she was sitting in the porch, her heart gave a throb
of anticipation. However, he said nothing of going, but remarked how
pretty the sloping ground looked, on the other side of the little
river, with its giant trees and the sunlight streaming through the
branches upon the greensward.
"It is very pretty," said Dolly. "The park is beautiful. You ought to
see it"--_before you go_, she was on the point of saying, but did not
say.
"Will you come with me, and show me what I ought to look at?"
"Now?" said Dolly.
"If it is not too warm for you. We might take it easily and keep in the
shadow of the trees."
"Oh, it is not too warm," said Dolly; and she ran to fetch her garden
hat.
It was not August now; the summer was past, yet the weather was fit for
the height of summer. Warm, spicy, dry air, showing misty in the
distance like a gossamer veil, and near by a still glow over
everything. The two young people wandered over the bridge and slowly
mounted the bank among the oaks and beeches, keeping in the shade as
much as might be. There was a glorious play of shadow and sunlight all
over the woodland; and the two went softly along, hardly disturbing the
wild creatures that looked at them now and then. For the woods were
full of life. They saw a hare cross an opening, and grey squirrels eyed
them from the great oak branches overhead; and there was a soft hum of
insects filling all the silence. It was not the time of day for the
birds to be merry. Nor perhaps for the human creatures who slowly
passed from tree to tree, avoiding the spaces of sunlight and summer
glow. They were neither merry nor talked much.
"This is very noble," said Sandie at last.
"Were you ever in England before, Mr. Shubrick?"
"Yes."
"Then you have seen many of these fine places already, perhaps?"
"No, not many. My stay has been mostly in London; though I did run down
a little into the country."
"People say we have nothing like this in America."
"True, I suppose," said Sandie. "We are too young a people, and we have
had something else to do."
"It is like a dream, that anybody should have such a house and such a
place as Brierley," Dolly went on. "There is nothing wanting that one
can imagine, for beauty and dignity and delight of living and luxury of
ease. It might be the Arabian Nights, or fairyland. You must see the
house, with its lovely old carvings, and pictures, and old, old
furniture; and the arms of the family that built it carved and painted
everywhere, on doors and chairs and mantelpieces."
"Of the family that built it?" repeated Mr. Shubrick. "Not the family
that owns it now?"
"No. You see their arms too, but the others are the oldest. And then it
would take you hours to go through the gardens. There are different
gardens; one, most exquisite, framed in with trees, and a fountain in
the middle, and all the beds filled with rare plants. But I do not like
anything about the place better than these trees and greensward."
"It must be a difficult thing," said Sandie meditatively, "to use it
all for Christ."
Dolly was silent a while. "I don't see how it _could_ be used so," she
said.
The other made no answer. They went slowly on and on, getting up to the
higher ground and more level going, while the sun's rays coming a
little more slant as the afternoon declined, gave an increasing
picturesqueness to the scene. Mr. Shubrick had been for some time
almost entirely silent, when Dolly proposed to stop and rest.
"One enjoys it better so," she said. "One has better leisure to look.
And I wanted to talk to you, besides."
Her companion was very willing, and they took their places under a
great oak, on the swell of greensward at the foot of it. Ground and
grass and moss were all dry. Dolly sat down and laid off her hat;
however, the proposed "talk" did not seem to be ready, and she let Mr.
Shubrick wait.
"I wanted to ask you something," said she at last. "I have been wanting
to ask you something for a good while."
There she stopped. She was not looking at him; she was taking care not
to look at him; she was trying to regard Mr. Shubrick as a foreign
abstraction. Seeing which, he began to look at her more persistently
than hitherto.
"What is it?" he asked, with not a little curiosity.
"There is nobody else I can ask," Dolly went on; "and if you could give
me the help I want, it would be a great thing for me."
"I will if I can."
The young man's eyes did not turn away now. And Dolly was an
excessively pretty thing to look at; so taken up with her own thoughts
that she was in no danger of finding out that she was an object of
attention or perhaps admiration. Her companion perceived this, and
indulged his eyes fearlessly. Dolly's fair, flushed face was thin with
the work and the care of many weeks past; the traces of that were plain
enough; yet it was delicately fair all the same, and perhaps more than
ever, with the heightened spirituality of the expression. The writing
on her features, of love and purity, habitual self-devotion and
self-forgetfulness, patience and sweetness, was so plain and so
unconscious, that it made her a very rare subject of contemplation,
and, as her companion thought, extremely lovely. Her attitude spoke the
same unconsciousness; her dress was of the simplest description; her
brown hair was tossed into disorder; but dress and hair and attitude
alike were deliciously graceful, with that mingling of characteristics
of child and woman which was peculiar to Dolly. Lieutenant Shubrick was
familiar with a very diverse type of womanly charms in the shape of his
long-betrothed Miss Thayer. The comparison, or contrast, might be
interesting; at any rate, any one who had eyes to read this type before
him needed no contrast to make it delightful; and probably Mr. Shubrick
had such eyes. He was quite silent, leaving Dolly to choose her time
and her words at her own pleasure.
"I know you will," she said slowly, taking up his last words;--"you
have already; but I am a bad learner. You know what you said, Mr.
Shubrick, the day you came, that evening when we were at supper,--about
trusting, and not taking care?"
"Yes."
Dolly did not look at him, and went on. "I do not find that I can do
it."
"Do what?"
"Lay down care. Quite lay it down."
"It is not easy," Mr. Shubrick admitted.
"Is it possible, always? I find I can trust pretty well when I can see
at least a possible way out of difficulties; but when the way seems all
shut up, and no opening anywhere,--then--I do not quite lay down care.
How can I?"
"There is only one thing that can make it possible."
"I know--you told me; but how then can I get that? I must be very far
from the knowledge of Christ--if _that_ is what is wanting."
Dolly's eyes filled with tears.
"No," said Mr. Shubrick gently, "but perhaps it does follow, that you
have not enough of that knowledge."
"Of course. And how shall I get it? I can trust when I see some light,
but when I can see none, I am afraid."
"If I promised to take you home, I mean, to America, by ways known to
me but unknown to you, could you trust me and take the steps I bade
you."
I am not justifying Mr. Shubrick. This was a kind of tentative speech
for his own satisfaction; but he made it, watching for Dolly's answer
the while. It came without hesitation.
"Yes," she said. "I should believe you, if you told me so."
"Yet in that case you would follow me blindly."
"Yes."
"Seeing no light."
"Yes. But then I know you enough to know that you would not promise
what you would not do."
"Thank you. This is by way of illustration. You would not be afraid?"
"Not a bit. I see what you mean," said Dolly, colouring a little.
"Do you think there is anything friends can give one another, so
precious as such trust?"
"No--I suppose not."
"Is it wonderful, if the Lord wants it of His children?"
"No. O Mr. Shubrick, I am ashamed of myself! What is the reason that I
can give it to you, for instance, and not to Him? Is it just
wickedness?"
"It is rather, distance."
"Distance! Then how shall I get near?"
"Do you know what a question you are asking me? One of the grandest
that a creature can ask. It is the question of questions. For, to get
near, is to see the Lord's beauty; and to see Him is to love Him, and
to love with that absolute confidence. 'Thou wilt keep Him in perfect
peace whose mind is stayed on Thee.' And, 'This is life eternal, to
know thee.'"
"Then how, Mr. Shubrick?" said Dolly. "How is one to do?" She was
almost tearful in her earnestness. But he spoke, earnestly enough, yet
with a smile.
"There are two sides to the question. On your side, you must do what
you would do in any case where you wanted to cultivate a friendship.
How would that be?"
Dolly pondered. "I never put it so to myself," she said slowly, "and
yet I suppose it must be so. Why, in any such case I should try to see
a great deal of the person I wanted to make a friend of. I would be in
the person's company, hear him talk, or hear her talk, if it was a
woman; and talk to her. It would be the only way we could become known
to each other."
"Translate, now."
"Translate?" said Dolly. "You mean,"----
"Apply to the case in hand."
"You mean," said Dolly, "that to study the Bible is to hear the Lord
speak; and to pray, is to speak to Him."
"To study the Bible with a heart ready to obey all it finds--_that_ is
hearing the Lord speak; and if prayer is telling Him your thoughts and
wishes in your own language, that is speaking to Him."
"But it is speaking without an answer."
"I beg your pardon. It is speaking without an audible answer; that is
all."
"Then how does the answer come?"
"In receiving what you ask for; in finding what you seek."
Dolly brushed away a tear again.
"One needs to take a good deal of time for all that," she said
presently.
"Can you cultivate a friendship on any other terms?"
"Perhaps not. This is quite a new view of the whole matter, Mr.
Shubrick. To me."
"Common sense. And Bible."
"Does the Bible speak of it?"
"The Bible speaks of the life of religion as contained in our knowing
God and in His knowing us."
"But He,--He knows everybody."
"Not in this way. It is the sweet knowledge of intimate friendship and
relations of affection. 'I know thee by name,' was one of the reasons
given why the Lord would grant Moses' bold prayer. 'I have called thee
by thy name, thou art Mine,' is the word to His people Israel. 'He
calleth His own sheep by name,' you know it is said of the Good
Shepherd. And 'they shall all know Me,' is the promise concerning the
Church in Christ. While, you remember, the sentence of dismissal to the
others will be simply, 'I know you not.' And, 'the Lord knoweth them
that are His.'"
There was silence; and then Dolly said, "You said there were two sides
to the question."
"Yes. Your part we have talked about; it is to study, and ask, and
obey, and believe. The Lord's part is to reveal Himself to you. It is a
matter of revelation. You cannot attain it by any efforts of your own,
be they never so determinate. Therefore your prayer must be constantly
like that of Moses--'I beseech thee, show me Thy glory.' And you see,
that makes your part easy, because the other part is sure."
"Mr. Shubrick, you are a very comforting talker!" said Dolly.
"Nay, I am only repeating the Lord's words of comfort."
"So I am to study, and yet study will not do it," said Dolly; "and I am
to pray, and yet prayer will not give it."
"Study will not do it, certainly. But when the Lord bestows His light,
study becomes illumination. No, prayer does not give it, either; yet
you must ask if yon would have. And Christ's promise to one who loves
Him and keeps His commandments is,--you recollect it,--'I will love him
_and will manifest Myself to him_.'"
"That will do, Mr. Shubrick, thank you," said Dolly rising. "You need
not say any more. I think I understand. And I am very much obliged to
you."
Mr. Shubrick made no answer. They went saunteringly along under the
great trees, rather silent both of them after that. As the sun got
lower the beauty of the wooded park ground grew more exceeding. All
that a most noble growth of trees could show, scattered and grouped,
all that a most lovely undulation of ground surface could give, in
slope and vista and broken light and shadow, was gilded here and there
with vivid gold, or filled elsewhere with a sunny, misty glow of
vapourous rays, as if the air were streaming with gold dust among the
trees. All tints and hues of greensward, moss, and fern, under all
conditions of illumination, met their wondering eyes; and for a while
there was little spoken but exclamations of delight and discussion of
beautiful effects that came under review. They went on so, from point
to point, by much the same way that Dolly had taken on her first visit
to the park; till they came out as she had done from the thinner part
of the woodland, and stood at the edge of the wide plain of open
greensward which stretched on up to the House. Here they stood still.
The low sun was shining over it all; the great groups of oaks and elms
stood in full revealed beauty and majesty; and in the distance the
House looked superbly down over the whole.
"There is hardly anything about Brierley that I like better than this,"
said Dolly. "Isn't it lovely? I always delight in this great slope of
wavy green ground; and see how it is emphasised and set off by those
magnificent trees? And the House looks better from nowhere than from
here."
"It is very noble--it is exceeding beautiful," Mr. Shubrick assented.
"Now this, I suppose, one could not see in America," Dolly went on;
"nor anything like it."
"America has its own beauties; doubtless nothing like this. There is
the dignity of many generations here. But, Miss Dolly, as I said
before,--it would be difficult to use all this for Christ."
"I do not see how it could be done," said Dolly. "Mr. Shubrick, I
happen to know, it takes seven or eight thousand a year--or more--to
keep the place up. Pounds sterling, I mean; not dollars. Merely to keep
the establishment up and in order."
"And yet, if I were its owner, I should find it hard to give up these
ancestral acres and trees, or to cease to take care of them. I am glad
I am a poor man!"
"Give them up?" said Dolly. "Do you think _that_ would be duty?"
"I do not know. How could I take seven or eight thousand pounds a year
just to keep up all this magnificence, when the money is so wanted for
the Lord's work, in so many ways? When it would do such great things,
given to Him."
"Then, Mr. Shubrick, the world must be very much mistaken in its
calculations. People would not even understand you, if they heard you
say that."
"Do _you_ understand me?"
"Oh yes. And yet I cannot tell you what delight I take in all this,
every time I see it. The feeling of satisfaction seems to go to my very
heart. And so when I am in the house,--and the gardens. Oh, you have
not seen the gardens, nor the House either; and there is no time
to-day. But I do not know that I enjoy anything much more than this
view. Though the House is delicious, Mr. Shubrick."
"I can believe it," he said, smiling. "You see what reason I have to
rejoice that I am a poor man."
Dolly thought, poor child, as they turned and went homeward, she could
hardly go so far as to rejoice that she was a poor woman. Not that she
wanted Brierley; but she did dread possible privation which seemed to
be before her. She feared the uncertainty which lay over her future in
regard to the very necessaries of life; she shrank a little from the
difficulty and the struggle of existence, which she knew already by
experience. And then, Mr. Shubrick, who had been such a help and had
made such a temporary diversion of her troubled thoughts, would be soon
far away; she had noticed that he did not speak of some other future
opportunity of seeing the house and gardens, when she remarked that it
was too late to-day. He would be going soon; this one walk with him was
probably the last; and then the old times would set in again. Dolly
went along down among the great oaks and beeches, down the bank now
getting in shadow, and spoke hardly a word. And Mr. Shubrick was as
silent as she, probably as busy with his own thoughts. So they went,
until they came again in sight of the bridge and the little river down
below them, and a few steps more would have brought the cottage into
view.
"We have come home fast," said Mr. Shubrick. "Do you think we need go
in and show ourselves quite yet? Suppose we sit down here under this
tree for a few minutes again, and enjoy all we can."
Dolly knew it must be approaching the time for her to see about supper;
but she could not withstand the proposal. She sat down silently and
took off her hat to cool herself.
"I come here very often," she said, "to get a little refreshment. It is
so pleasant, and so near home."
"You call Brierley 'home.' Have you accepted it as a permanent home?"
"What can we do?" said Dolly. "Mother and I long to go back to
America--we cannot persuade father."
"Miss Dolly, will you excuse me for remarking that you wear a very
peculiar watch-chain," Mr. Shubrick said next, somewhat irrelevantly.
"My watch-chain! Oh, yes, I know it is peculiar," said Dolly. "For
anything I know, there is only one in the world."
"May I ask, whose manufacture it is?"
"It was made by somebody--a sort of a friend, and yet not a friend
either--somebody I shall never see again."
"Ah? How is that?"
"It is a great while ago," said Dolly. "I was a little girl. At that
time I was at school in Philadelphia, and staying with my aunt there. O
Aunt Hal! how I would like to see her!--The girls were all taken one
day to see a man-of-war lying in the river; our schoolmistress took us;
it was her way to take us to see things on the holidays; and this time
it was a man-of-war; a beautiful ship; the 'Achilles.' My chain is made
out of some threads of a cable on board the 'Achilles.'"
"You did not make it?"
"No, indeed. I could not, nor anybody else that I know. The manufacture
is exquisite. Look at it," said Dolly, putting chain and watch in Mr.
Shubrick's hand.
"But somebody must have made it," said the young officer, examining the
chain attentively.
"Yes. It was odd enough. The others were having lunch; I could not get
into the little cabin where the table was set, the place was so full;
and so I wandered away to look at things. I had not seen them half
enough, and then one of the young officers of the ship found me--he was
a midshipman, I believe--and he was very good to me. He took me up and
down and round and about; and then I was trying to get a little bit of
a piece off a cable that lay coiled up on the deck and could not, and
he said he would send me a piece; and he sent me that."
"Seems strong," said Mr. Shubrick, still examining the chain.
"Oh, it is very strong."
"This is a nice little watch. Deserves a better thing to carry it."
"Better!" cried Dolly, stretching out her hand for the chain. "You do
not appreciate it. I like this better than any other. I always wear
this. Father gave me a very handsome gold chain; he was of your
opinion; but I have never had it on. This is my cable." She slipped the
chain over her neck as she spoke.
"What makes you think you will never see the maker of the cable again?"
"Oh, that is a part of the story I did not tell you. With the chain
came a little note, asking me to say that I had received it, and signed
'A. Crowninshield.' I can show you the note. I have it in my work-box
at home. Do you know anybody of that name in the navy, Mr. Shubrick?"
"Midshipman?"
"He might not be a midshipman now, you know. That is nine years ago."
"True. I do not know of a Lieutenant Crowninshield in the navy--and I
am sure there is no captain of that name."
"That is what I thought," said Dolly. "I do not believe he is alive.
Whenever I saw in the papers mention of a ship of the navy in port, I
used to go carefully over the lists of her officers; but I never could
find the name of Crowninshield."
Mr. Shubrick here produced his pocket-book, and after some opening of
inner compartments, took out a small note, which he delivered to Dolly.
Dolly handled it at first in blank surprise, turned it over and over,
finally opened it.
"Why, this is my note!" she cried, very much confounded. "My own little
note to that midshipman. Here is my name. And here is his name. How did
you get it, Mr. Shubrick?" she asked, looking at him. But his face told
her nothing.
"It was given to me," he said.
"By whom?"
"By the messenger that brought it from you."
"The messenger? But you you--you--are somebody else!"
Mr. Shubrick laughed out.
"Am I?" said he. "Well, perhaps,--though I think not."
"But you are not that midshipman?"
"No. I was he, though."
"Your name,--your name is not Crowninshield?"
"Yes. That is one of my names. Alexander Crowninshield Shubrick, at
your service."
Dolly looked at him, like a person awake from a dream, trying to read
some of the remembered lineaments of that midshipman in his face. He
bore her examination very coolly.
"Why--Oh, is it possible you are he?" cried Dolly with an odd accent of
almost disappointment, which struck Mr. Shubrick, but was inexplicable.
"Why did you not sign your true name?"
"Excuse me. I signed my true name, as far as it went."
"But not the whole of it. Why didn't you?"
"I had a reason. I did not wish you to trace me."
"But please, why not, Mr. Shubrick?"
"We might say, it was a boy's folly."
"I shall not say so," said Dolly, tendering the note back. "I daresay
you had some reason or other. But I cannot somehow get my brain out of
a whirl. I thought you were somebody else!--Here is your note, Mr.
Shubrick. I cannot imagine what made you keep it so long."
His hand did not move to receive the note.
"I have been keeping it for this time," he answered. "And now, I do not
want to keep it any longer, Miss Dolly, unless--unless I may have you
too."
Dolly looked at him now with a face of startled inquiry and uneasiness.
Whether she were more startled or incredulous of what she heard, it
would be impossible to say. The expression in her eyes grew to be
almost terror. But Mr. Shubrick smiled a little as he met them.
"I kept the note, for I always knew, from that time, that I should
marry that little girl, if ever I could find her,--and if she would let
me."
Dolly's face was fairly blanched. "But--you belong to somebody else,"
she said.
"No," said he,--"I beg your pardon. I belong to nobody in the world,
but myself. And you."
"Christina told me"----
"She told you true," said Mr. Shubrick quite composedly. "There was a
connection subsisting between us, which, while it lasted, bound us to
each other. It happened, as such things happen; years ago we were
thrown into each other's company, in the country, when I was home on
leave. My home was near hers; we saw a great deal of each other; and
fancied that we liked each other more than the fact was, or rather in a
different way. So we were engaged; on my part it was one of those
boyish engagements which boys frequently form before they know their
own minds, or what they want. On the other side you can see how it was
from the circumstances of the case. Christina did not care enough about
me to want to be married; she always put it off; and I was not deeply
enough concerned to find the delay very hard to bear. And then, when I
saw you in Rome that Christmas time, I knew immediately that if ever in
the world I married anybody, it would be the lady that wore that chain."
"But Christina?" said Dolly, still with a face of terrified trouble.
Was then Mr. Shubrick a traitor, false to his engagements, deserting a
person to whom, whether willingly or not, he was every way bound? He
did not look like a man conscious of dishonourable dealing, of any
sort; and he answered in a voice that was both calm and unconcerned.
"Christina and I are good friends, but not engaged friends any more.
Will you read that?"
He handed Dolly another letter as he spoke, and Dolly, bewildered,
opened it.
"Ischl, _May_ 6, 18--.
"DEAR SANDIE,--"You are quite ridiculous to want me to write this
letter, for anybody that knows you, knows that whatever you say is the
truth, absolutely unmixed and unvarnished. Your word is enough for any
statement of facts, without mine to help it. However, since you will
have it so, here I am writing.
"But really it is very awkward. What do you wish me to say, and how
shall I say it? You want a testimony, I suppose. Well, then, this is to
certify, that you and I are the best friends in the world, and mean to
remain so, in spite of the fact that we once meant to be more than
friends, and have found out that we made a mistake. Yes, it was a
mistake. We both know it now. But anybody may be mistaken; it is no
shame, either to you or me, especially since we have remedied the error
after we discovered it. Really, I am in admiration of our
clear-sightedness and bravery, in breaking loose, in despite of the
trammels of conventionality. But you never were bound by those
trammels, or any other, except what you call 'duty.' So I herewith
declare you free,--that is what you want me to say, is it not?--free
with all the honours, and with the full preservation of my regards and
high consideration. Indeed, I do not believe I ever shall hold anybody
else in _quite_ such high consideration; but perhaps that very fact
made me unfit to be anything but your friend. I am afraid you are too
good for me, in stern earnest; but I have a notion that will be no
disadvantage to you in certain other sweet eyes that I know; the
goodness, I mean, not anything else.
"We are here, at this loveliest of lovely places; but we have got
enough of it, and are going to spend some weeks in the Tyrol. I suppose
I know where to imagine _you_, at least part of the summer. And you
will know where to imagine me next winter, when I tell you that in the
fall the probability is that I shall become Mrs. St. Leger. You may
tell Dolly. Didn't I remark to her once that she and I had better
effect an exchange? Funny, wasn't it? However, for the present I am, as
I have long been, your very sincere friend, CHRISTINA THAYER."
Dolly read the letter and stared at it, and finally returned it without
raising her eyes. And then she sat looking straight before her, while
her face might be likened to the evening sky when the afterglow is
catching the clouds. From point to point the flush catches, cloud after
cloud is lighted up, until under the whole heaven there is one crimson
glow. Dolly was not much given to blushing, she was not at all wont to
be a prey to shyness; what had come over her now? When Lawrence St.
Leger had talked to her on this very same subject, she had been able to
answer him with scarcely a rise of colour in her cheeks; with a calm
and cool exercise of her reasoning powers, which left her fully
mistress of the situation and of herself. She had not been disturbed
then, she had not been excited. What was the matter now? For Dolly was
overtaken by an invincible fit of shyness, such as never had visited
her in all her life. I do not think now she knew that she was blushing;
according to her custom, she was not self-conscious; what she was
conscious of, intensely, was Mr. Shubrick's presence, and an
overwhelming sense of his identity with the midshipman of the
"Achilles." What _that_ had to do with Dolly's shyness, it might be
hard to tell; but her sweet face flushed till brow and neck caught the
tinge, and the eyelids fell over the eyes, and Dolly for the moment was
mistress of nothing. Mr. Shubrick looking at her, and seeing those
lovely flushes and her absolute gravity and silence, was in doubt what
it might mean. He thought that perhaps nobody had ever spoken to her on
such a subject before; yet Dolly was no silly girl, to be overcome by
the mere strangeness of his words. Did her silence and gravity augur
ill for him? or well? And then, without being in the least a coxcomb,
it occurred to him that her excessive blushing told on the hopeful side
of the account. He waited. He saw she was as shy as a just caught bird;
was she caught? He would not make so much as a movement to startle her
further. He waited, with something at his heart which made it easier
every moment for him to wait. But in the nature of the case, waiting
has its limits.
"What are you going to do about it?" he inquired at length, in a very
gentle manner. "Give me my note back again, with the conditions?"
Dolly did nothing of the kind. She held the note, it is true, and
looked at it, but without making any movement to restore it to its
owner. So decided an action did not seem at the moment possible to her.
She looked at the little note, with the prettiest sort of
embarrassment, and presently rose to her feet. "I am sure it is time to
have supper," she said, "and they cannot do anything at home till I
come."
Mr. Shubrick rose too and followed Dolly, who set off unceremoniously
down the bank towards the bridge. He followed her, half smiling, and
wholly impatient. Yet though a stride or two would have brought him
alongside of her, he would not make them. He kept behind, and allowed
her to trip on before him, which she did with a light, hasty foot,
until they neared the little gate of the courtyard belonging to the
house. Then he stepped forward and held the gate open for her to enter,
not saying a word. Dolly passed him with the loveliest shy down-casting
of her eyelids, and went on straight into the house. He saw the bird
was fluttering yet, but he thought he was sure of her.