"_We_ help _you_," said his wife. "Why didn't you come yesterday?"
"Business, my dear; as I said. These are good berries. Do they grow in the garden?"
"How should strawberries grow in a garden where nobody has been living?" said his wife. "And what is your idea of play in an out-of-the-way place like this, Mr. Copley?"
"Well--not a catechism," said he, slowly putting strawberries in his mouth one after the other. "What's the matter with the place? I thought it would just suit you. Isn't the air good?"
"Breathing isn't quite the only necessary of life," said his wife; "and you were asking about play. I think a change would be play to me."
"Well, this is a change, or I don't know the meaning of the word.
You've just come, and have not examined the ground yet. Must have a good market, if this fruit is any sign."
"There is no market or anything else, except what you can find in a little village. The strawberries come from Brierley House, where Dolly goes to get _her_ play. As for me, who cannot run about, on my feet, or anyway, I sit here and wonder when she will be back again. Are we to have no carriage here, Mr. Copley?"
"We had better find out how you like it first, seems to me. Hardly worth while, if you're not going to stay."
Mr. Copley rose and sauntered out to the porch, and Dolly looked furtively at her mother. She saw a troubled, anxious face, lines of nervous unrest; she saw that her father's coming had not brought refreshment or relief; and truly she did not perceive why it should.
Dolly was wholly inexperienced, in all but the butterfly life of very happy young years; nevertheless, she could not fail to read, or at least half read, some signs of another sort of life. She noticed that her father's manner wanted its ordinary careless, confident ease; there was something forced about it; his face bore tokens of loss of sleep, and had a trait of uneasiness most unwonted in Mr. Copley. Dolly sat still a little while, and then went out and joined her father in the porch. Mr. St. Leger had come in, so that she did not leave her mother alone. Dolly came close and laid her arm round her father's neck, her fingers playing with his hair; while he fondly threw one arm about her.
"How is it, Dolly?" he asked. "Don't you like it here?"
"_I_ do, very much. But mother finds it very quiet. I think she would like to travel, father."
"Travel! But I can't go travelling. I cannot get away from London for more than a day. Quiet! I thought she wanted quiet. I heard of nothing but her want of quiet, till I got her down here; and now she wants noise."
"Not noise, exactly, but change."
"Well, what is this but change? as I said. I do not know what would please her."
"I know what would please me," said Dolly, with her heart beating; for she was venturing on unknown ground--"A little money."
"Money!" exclaimed her father. "What in the world do you want with money down here?"
"To pay the servants, father," Dolly said low. "Margaret asked me for her month's wages, and I said I would ask you. Can you give it to me?"
"She cannot do anything with money down here either. She don't want it.
Her wages are safe, tell her. I'll take care of them for her."
"But, father, if she likes to take care of them for herself, she has the right. Such people like to see their money, I suppose."
"I have yet to find the people that don't," said her father. "But, really, she'll have to wait, my child. I have not brought so much in my pocket-book with me."
This also struck Dolly as very unusual. Never in her life, that she could remember, had her father confessed before to an empty purse.
"Then, could you send it to me, father, when you go back to London?"
"Yes, I'll send it. Or better, wait till I come down again. You would not know how to manage if I sent it. And Margaret really cannot be in a hurry."
Dolly stood still, fingering the locks of her father's thick hair, while her mental thermometer went down and down. She knew by his whole manner that the money was not at hand even were he in London; and where then was it? Mr. Copley had always till now had plenty; what had happened, or what was the cause of the change? And how far had it gone?
and to what point might it go? and what should she do, if she could not soon pay Margaret? and what would become of her mother, if not only her travelling projects were shattered, but also her personal and household comforts should fail her where she was? What could Dolly do, to save money? or could she in any way touch the source of the evil, and bring about an essential bettering of this new and evil state of things? She must know more first; and how should she get more knowledge?
There came a sigh to her ears here, which greatly touched her.
Nevertheless, for the present she could not even show sympathy, for she dared not seem aware of the need for it. Tears came to her eyes, but she commanded them back; that would not do either.
"Suppose we take a walk, Dolly, in that jolly old wood yonder?" Mr.
Copley said. "That's Brierley Park, ain't it? We might go and see the house, if you like."
"It is Sunday, father."
"Well, what then? The world is pretty much the same thing Sunday that it is other days, eh?"
"Yes, father--the world; but not the day. That is not the same as the rest."
"Why not? We cannot go to church to-day, if that is what you are thinking of. I took church-time to come down here. And if you wanted to go to church, Dolly, you couldn't have a finer temple than over yonder."
"Oh, if you'll go to church there, father, I'll go."
"To be sure I will. Get your hat."
"And my Bible?"
"Bible?" Mr. Copley looked at her. "I didn't say anything about a Bible. We are going to take a walk. You don't want a book to carry."
"How are we going to church there, then?"
"Think good thoughts, and enjoy the works of the good Creator. That's all you can do in any church, Dolly. Come, little Puritan."
Dolly did not quite know what to do; however, she got her hat, finding that her mother was willing; and she and her father went down to the bridge. There, to her dismay somewhat, they were joined by Mr. St.
Leger. But not to Mr. Copley's dismay; he welcomed the young man openly. Dolly would have gone back now, but she did not dare.
"Going to see the house?" Lawrence asked.
"It is Sunday," said Dolly. "You cannot."
"There's a way of opening doors, even on Sunday," said the other.
"No, not here. The housekeeper will not let you in. She is a Christian."
"She is a Methodist, you mean," said Mr. Copley.
"I believe she is a Methodist. She is a good friend of mine."
"What business have you to make friends with Methodists? we're all good Church people; hey, Lawrence? What grand old woods these are!"
"How old do you suppose these trees to be, father?"
"Can't guess; less than centuries would not do. Centuries of being let alone! I wonder how men would get on, if they could have as good a chance? Glorious! Go on, children, and take your walk; I will lie down here and rest. I believe I want that more than walking."