"Does that forbid your pleasing yourself?"
"Not in one way," said Mr. Shubrick, smiling again, a smile that made Dolly's heart throb with its meaning. "It is my pleasure to do my Master's will. The work He has given me to do, I would rather do of all things."
"I can't think what work you mean, Sandie. I really do not understand."
"Do you understand, Miss Copley?"
Dolly started. "I believe so," she said.
"Will you have the goodness to explain to Christina?"
"Why don't you explain yourself, Sandie?" said his betrothed.
"I am talking too much. Besides, it will come better from Miss Copley's lips."
"I don't think so; but however.--Well, Dolly, if you are to explain, please explain. But how come _you_ to understand, when I don't understand? What work does he mean?"
"I suppose," said Dolly, "Mr. Shubrick means work for other people."
"Work for other people!" cried Christina. "Do you think _we_ do not do work for other people? Mamma gives away loads; she does a great deal for the poor. She is always doing it."
"And you?"
"Oh, I help now and then. But she does not want my help much."
"Did you think, Miss Copley, I meant work for poor people?"
"No," said Dolly. "At least--that is--I thought you meant the work that is for Christ."
"Well, I am sure He commanded us to take care of the poor," said Christina.
"He commanded us also to carry the gospel to every creature."
"That's for ministers, and missionaries," said Christina.
"The order was given to all the disciples, and He commanded us to be lights in the world."
"Of course--to set good examples."
"That is not quite the whole," said Mr. Shubrick; "though people do take it so, I believe."
"I have always taken it so," said Dolly. "What more can it be?"
"Remember the words--'Whatsoever _doth make manifest_ is light.' There is the key. There are good examples--so called--which disturb nobody.
There are others,"--he spoke very gravely,--"before which sin knows itself, and conscience shrinks away; before which no lie can stand.
Those are the Lord's light-bearers."
"Sandie, what has got you into this vein of moralising? Is this talk for Christmas Eve, when we ought to be merry? Don't you lead a dreadful dull life on board ship?"
"No," said he. "Never. Neither there nor anywhere else."
"Are you always picking at the wick of that light of yours, to make it shine more?"
"By no means. No lamp would stand such treatment. No; the only thing for us to do in that connection is to see that the supply of oil is kept up."
"Sandie, life would be fearful on your terms!"
"I do not find it so."
And, "Oh no, Christina!" came from Dolly's lips at the same time.
Christina looked from one to the other.
"I had better gone to the Sistine," she said. "I suppose you would tell me there to look at Michael Angelo's picture of the Last Judgment. But I assure you I never do. I make a point not to see it."
"What do _you_ enjoy most in this old city, Miss Copley?" Mr. Shubrick said now, turning to her.
"I hardly can tell," said Dolly; "I enjoy it all so very much. I think, of all--perhaps the Colosseum."
"That old ruin!" said Christina.
"But it is such a beautiful ruin! Have you seen it by moonlight? And I always think of the time when it was finished, and full, and of the things that were done there; and I fancy the times when the moonlight shone in just so after the days when Christians had been given to the lions. I never get tired of the Colosseum."
"You, too!" exclaimed Christina. "What pleasant and enlivening contemplations!"
"Yes," said Dolly. "Grand. I see the moonlight shining on the broken walls of the Colosseum, and I think of the martyrs in their white robes. There is no place brings me nearer to heaven, and the world looks so small."
"Dolly Copley!" cried Christina. "Do you want the world to look small, as long as you are obliged to live in it?"
"It looks big enough," said Dolly, smiling, "as soon as I get home."
The conversation, however, after this did take a turn, and ran upon more everyday topics; less interesting to Dolly however. But the speakers were interesting always; and she watched them, the play of sense and nonsense, of feeling and fun, not caring much that the matter of the talk did not concern her; until Mrs. Thayer and her escort were heard returning.
And then, indeed, the evening changed its character; however the fascination remained for Dolly. The talk was no longer on personal subjects; it went gaily and jovially over all sorts of light matters; an excellent supper was served; and in the novelty and the brightness and the liveliness of all about her, Dolly was in a kind of bewitchment. It was a lull, a pause in the midst of her cares, a still nook to which an eddy had brought her, out of the current; Dolly took the full benefit. She would not think of trouble. Sometimes a swift feeling of contrast swept in upon her, the contrast of her friend's safe and sheltered life. No care for her; no anxiety about ways and means; no need to work for money; and no need to fear for anybody dear to her. Christina's father was _her_ guardian, not she his; he might be a very humdrum man, and no doubt was, but his daughter had no cause to be ashamed for him; had not the burden of his life and character on her own shoulders to take care of. A swift, keen feeling of this contrast would come over Dolly; but she put it away as instantly, and would not see or hear anything but what was pleasant.
CHAPTER XXVI.
NAPLES.
Dolly shared her friend's room. Talk ran on, all the while they were undressing, upon all manner of trifles. When they were laid down, however, and Dolly was just rejoicing to be quiet and think, Christina began to speak in a different tone.
"Dolly, how do you like him?"
I think, if Dolly had liked him less, she would have been fuller in his praise. I do not know by what sort of hidden instinct and unconscious diplomacy she answered very coolly and with no enthusiasm.
"I like him very well. I think he is true."
"True! Of course he is true. If he wouldn't be so stupid. To expect one to be unlike all the world."