The owner of the voice came forward; a portly, respectable landlady.
She surveyed Dolly, glanced at the cab, became very civil, invited Dolly in, and sent the maid upstairs to make inquiries, declaring she did not know herself whether the gentleman were out or in. Dolly would not sit down. The girl brought down word that Mr. Copley was not out of his bedroom yet.
"I went in the parlour, ma'am, and knocked, ma'am; and I might as well ha' axed my broom, ma'am."
"I'll go up," said Dolly hastily; and waiting for no answer, she brushed past landlady and maid and ran up the stairs. Then paused.
"Which rooms? on the first floor?"
The woman of the house came bustling after her up the stairs and opened the door of a sitting-room. It was very comfortably furnished.
"You couldn't go wrong, ma'am," she said civilly, "I 'ave no one in my rooms at this present, except Mr. Copley. I suppose you are his daughter, ma'am?"
"His daughter," Dolly repeated, standing still and facing the landlady, and keeping down all outward expression of the excitement which was consuming her. She knew she kept it down; she faced the woman steadily and calmly, and the landlady was more and more humbly civil. "Mr.
Copley is not ill?" Dolly went on.
"Oh, dear, no, ma'am! not to call h'ill. Mr. Copley is in enjoyment of very good 'ealth; as I 'ave occasion to know, ma'am, who cooks his meals for him. I can allers tell by that. When a gentleman or a lady 'as good taste for their victuals, I think it's no 'arm if they sleeps a little long in the morning; it's a trifle onconvenient to the 'ouse, it may be, when things is standing roun', but it's good for theirselves, no doubt, and satisfyin' and they'll be ready for their breakfast when they comes h'out. And shall I wake Mr. Copley for you, ma'am? It's time for him, to be sure."
"Thank you, no; you need not do anything. I will sit here and wait a little."
"And Mr. Copley's coffee'll be ready for him, ma'am, when he's ready for h'it. Mr. Copley, he sets a good deal by his coffee, and likes it made particular, and he _gets_ it made particular. Didn't Mr. Copley tell you, ma'am, as his coffee was satisfactory?"
"I daresay it is," said Dolly; "and I will ring for it when my father wants it. You may leave me; I will wait here."
The landlady had been going round the room, picking up a bit of paper here and wiping her apron over a table there, the while taking a careful view of Dolly and examining her all over. Dolly's figure and manner were irreproachable; and with renewed proffers of service, the woman at last, having no choice, left the room. Dolly stood still a moment then, collecting herself and looking at the situation. Past one o'clock, and her father not out of his room! That was not like any of his habits, as she knew them; and Dolly stood with the shadow of a nameless fear falling across her spirit. Nameless, and formless; she did not discern it clearly or attempt to examine it; the mere shadow of it chilled her to the bone. She stood thinking, and trembling. Not at his office for several days, though business must be calling for him; not out of his room at one o'clock in the afternoon, though all his old simple home habits were opposed to such a waste of daylight! Should she try to arouse him? Dolly did try, after a little while; for she could not bear the still waiting; she knocked at the inner door; but she got no response. Then she went down to Mrs. Jersey at the cab, and told her the state of the case, begging her to go away and not wait any longer.
_She_ must wait, and it was impossible to say how long.
"Miss Dolly, does your father often rise so late?"
"They say so. He never used, but it seems he does now."
"It's the way with a many," said the housekeeper. "Never mind me, my dear. I'll wait here, or if I get tired of that, I will come in and sit with the landlady. I shall not leave you."
Inwardly thankful, Dolly went back to her post and sat down and looked around her. She could tell nothing by the room or its contents. Both were nice enough; there was a slight smell of cigars, that was all to find fault with. Dolly waited. The stillness grew dreadful. To seventeen years old the first trouble comes hard; albeit seventeen years old has also a great fund of spirit and strength to meet and conquer trouble. But what was the trouble here? It was not the unusual scantiness of means; _that_ could soon be made right, if other things were not wrong which wrought to cause it. On the other hand, if her father had fallen irreparably into bad habits--Dolly would not admit the "irreparably" into her thoughts. But it was bitter to her that children should ever have to find their parents in the wrong; dreadful to have occasion to be ashamed of them. She knew, if her case proved such a one, it would be only one of a great many; she had read of such things, although chiefly among another class of people who were of coarser habits and duller natures, and if they fell had less distance to fall to get to the lowest level of society. But _her father!_--Dolly cowered with her head down upon the back of a chair, and a cry in her heart calling upon his name. Her father? could she have to blush for him? All her nature revolted against it; the thought came over her as a thick black cloud, so thick that for the moment light was banished from all her little landscape. Oh, how can fathers do such things! and how can daughters live under them! Death might be borne easier; but disgrace? Death would leave the loved one still her own; disgrace seemed to have a power of annihilation. Still, Dolly knew not that such trouble was really come upon her; alas, she did know too well that the fear of it had. And what a descent did that alone imply! She raised her head again, and sat with dry eyes and a beating heart, waiting.
At last she was sure she heard some movement in the inner room. She heard the click of things that were moved; the fall of a chair that was knocked over, sounds of steps. Finally the door opened, and Mr. Copley appeared on the threshold. The sight of him smote his daughter. His dress was carelessly thrown on; _that_ was not so very remarkable, for Mr. Copley never was an exact man in matters of the toilet. It was not merely that. But Dolly's eye saw that his step was unsteady, his face dull and flushed, and his eye had a look which even a very little experience understands. His air was haggard, spiritless, hopeless; so unlike the alert, self-sufficient, confident manner of old, that Dolly's heart got a great wrench. And something in the whole image was so inexpressibly pitiful to her, that she did the very last thing it had been in her purpose to do; she fled to him with one bound, threw herself on his breast, and burst into a heartbreak of tears.
Poor Mr. Copley was greatly startled and sorely perplexed. He had not been prepared to see his daughter; and though miserably conscious that he offered ground enough himself for Dolly's passion, he could not yet be sure that it concerned him. It might be wrought by some other cause; and in sore dismay and uncertainty he was not able to bring out a word of question. Dolly sobbed, and sobbed; and putting her arms up around his neck strained him in an embrace that was most pitifully longing and tender. Mr. Copley felt the pitifulness; he did not know what it meant.
It was not till Dolly had released him and was trying to dry her eyes that he brought out a question.
"What's the matter with you, Dolly?"
Dolly heard the thick and lumbering accent of his words, and burst forth in a despairing cry. "O father! what is the matter with you?"
"I'm all right," said poor Mr. Copley. "I'm all right. What are you here for?"
"I wanted to see you. Why did you never come down? You haven't been near us."
"I was coming--hindered always--I was coming, Dolly. How's your mother?"
Dolly made a great effort after voice and calmness.
"She is well--I mean, she is no worse than usual. Will you have your coffee, father?"
But Dolly's voice choked with a sob. Mr. Copley looked at her in a helpless kind of way and made no answer. Dolly rang the bell.
"How--a--how did you get here?" was the next question, put in evident embarrassment.
"You wouldn't come to Brierley, father; so I had to come to London. I came with a friend."
"St. Leger?"
"St. Leger! No, indeed. Oh, I came with a very nice friend, who took good care of me. Now, here's your breakfast."
Dolly was glad of the chance to get upon common everyday ground, till her breath should be free again. She helped arrange the dishes; dismissed the maid; poured out Mr. Copley's coffee and served him.
"Better take some yourself, Dolly. Had your breakfast? Let Mrs. Bunce do you another chop."
Dolly at first said no; but presently felt that she was faint and exhausted, and agreed to the suggestion. She rang for another cup and plate, and ordered the chop. Meanwhile Mr. Copley drank coffee and made a poor hand of the rest of his breakfast.
"What did you come up for, Dolly?"
"To see you, sir."
"You might have waited for that."
"But how long? I had waited."
"What's up?--if your mother's well."
"I wanted to talk to you, father, and I couldn't do it in letters; because there the talking was all on one side, and I wanted to hear what you would say."
"Why, didn't I answer you?"
"No, sir."
"Well, what do you want, Dolly?"
"I want a great deal, father. Wait, please, till I get my chop; for I cannot talk to you till I do."
"'Ill talking between a full man and a fasting,' eh? Well, here's your breakfast."
It was only the bespoken cup and plate, however, and Mr. Copley had to wait longer. It came at last, the chop; and till it came Dolly said no more. Her father watched her, and watched her, and could not take his eyes off her. The flush on her cheek and the sparkle in her eye, the moisture still lingering on her eyelashes, how sweet she was! and how indefinably lovely! Dolly had grown into a woman; she had the presence and poise that belong to a high-bred woman; and yet she had not lost her girlhood nor grown out of its artless graces; and as Mr. Copley looked he saw now and then a very childlike trembling of the under lip.
It troubled his heart. He had been very uncomfortable ever since his meeting with his daughter; the discomfort began now to develope into the stings and throes of positive pain. What was she there for? whence had come that agony of tears? and why when those tears were pouring from her eyes did her soft arm clasp him so? did she want help from him? or for him? Mr. Copley grew extremely uneasy; restless and fidgeting. Dolly ate her chop and her potatoe, needing it, I fancy; and perhaps she wanted to gain time too. Mr. Copley had no appetite. He had none to begin with, and certainly Dolly's appearance had not given him what he had not before.
"You don't make much of a breakfast, father," Dolly observed.
"Never do," he returned. "No time to eat, when a man has just got up. A cup of coffee is the only thing. The French way is the best."