"You are quite a riddle, Rupert. I make nothing of it."
"Miss Dolly, I've been thinking that I will go home."
"Home?" And Dolly's face now grew very grave indeed.
"Yes. I've been splitting my head thinking; and I've about made up my mind. I think I'll go home." Rupert was very serious too, and pulled the oars with a leisurely, mechanical stroke, which showed he was not thinking of _them_.
"What home? London, do you mean?"
"Well, not exactly. I should think not! No, I mean Boston, or Lynn rather. There's my old mother."
"Oh!--your mother," said Dolly slowly. "And she is at Lynn. Is she _alone_ there?"
"She's been alone ever since I left her; and I'm thinking that's what she hadn't ought to be."
Dolly paused. The indication seemed to be, that Rupert was taking up the notion of duty; duty towards others as well as pleasure for himself; and a great throb of gladness came up in her heart, along with the sudden shadow of what was not gladness.
"I think you are quite right, Rupert," she said soberly. "Then you are purposing to go back to Lynn to take care of her?"
"I set out to see the world and to be something," Rupert went on, looking thoughtfully out to sea;--"and I've done one o' the two. I've seen the world. I don' know as I should ever be anything, if I staid in it. But your talk that day--those days--wouldn't go out of my head; and I thought I'd give it up, and go home to my old mother."
"I'll tell you what I think, Rupert," said Dolly; "a man is a great deal more likely to come out right in the end and 'be something,' if he follows God's plan for him, than if he makes a plan for himself.
Anyhow, I'd rather have that 'Well done,' by and by"---- She stopped.
"How's a man to find out God's plan for him?"
"Just the way you are doing. When work is set before you, take hold of it. When the Lord has some more for you He'll let you know."
"Then you think this _is_ my work, Miss Dolly, to go home and take care of her? She wanted me to make a man of myself; and when Mr. Copley made me his offer, she didn't hold me back. But she cried some!"
"You cannot do another so manly a thing as this, Rupert. I wouldn't let her cry any more, if I were you."
"No more I ain't a-goin' to," said the young man energetically. "But, Miss Dolly"----
"What?"
"Do you think it is my duty, because I do one thing, to do t'other? Do you think I ought to take to shoemaking?"
"Why to shoemaking, Rupert?"
"Well, my father was a shoemaker. They're all shoemakers at Lynn, pretty much."
"That is no reason why you should be. Your education, the education you have got since you came over to this side, has fitted you for something else, if you like something else better."
"That's just what I do!" said Rupert with emphasis. "But I could make a good living that way--I was brought up to it, you see;--and I s'pose _she'd_ like me to take up the old business; but I feel like driving an awl through a board whenever I think of it."
"I wouldn't do it, Rupert, if I could do something I was more fit for.
People always do things best that they like to do. I think the choice of a business is your affair. Do what you can do best. But I'd make shoes rather than do nothing."
"I don't know what I am fit for," said Rupert, evidently relieved, "but--oh yes, I would _cobble_ shoes rather than do nothing. I don't want to eat idle bread. Then I'll go."
"Your experience here, in London and on this journey, will not have been lost to you," Dolly observed.
"It's been the best thing ever happened to me, this journey," said the young man. "And you've done me more good, Miss Dolly, than anybody in this world,--if it ain't my mother."
"I? I am very glad. I am sure you have done a great deal for me, Rupert."
"You have put me upon thinking. And till a fellow begins to think, he ain't much more good than a cabbage."
"When will you go, Rupert? I wish we were going too!"
"Well, I guess my old mother has sat lookin' for me long enough. I guess I'll start pretty soon."
"Will you?" said Dolly. "But not before we have made our visit to Mrs.
Thayer's villa? We are going there next week."
"I'll start then, I guess."
"And not go with us to the Thayers'?"
"I guess not."
"Didn't they invite you?"
"Not a bit of it! Took good care not, I should say."
"How do you mean?"
"Well, Miss Dolly, Mrs. Thayer was standing two feet from me and asking Mr. St. Leger, and she didn't look my way till she had got through and was talking of something else; and then she looked as if I had been a pane of glass and she was seeing something on the other side--as I suppose she was."
Dolly was silent for a few minutes and then she said, "How I shall miss you, Rupert!"--and tears were near, though she would not let them come.
And Rupert made no answer at all, but rowed the boat in.
Yes, Dolly knew she would miss him sadly. He had been her helper and standby and agent and escort and friend, in many a place now, and on many an occasion. He had done for her what there was no one else to do, ever since that first evening when he had made his appearance at Brierley and she had wished him away. So little do people recognise their blessings often at first sight. Now,--Dolly pondered as she climbed the cliff,--how would she get along without Rupert? How long would her father even be content to abide with her mother and her in their quiet way of living? she had seen symptoms of restlessness already. What should she do if he became impatient? if he left them to St. Leger's care and went back to London? or if he carried them off with him perhaps? To London again! And then afresh came the former question, what was there in her power, that might draw her father to take deeper and truer views of life and duty than he was taking now? A question that greatly bothered Dolly; for there was dimly looming up in the distance an answer that she did not like. To attack her father in private on the subject of religion, was a step that Dolly thought very hopeless; he simply would not hear her. But there was another thing she could do--could she do it? Persuade her father and mother to consent to have family prayer? Dolly's heart beat and her breath came quick as she passed through the little garden, sweet with roses and oleander and orange blossoms. How sweet the flowers were! how heavenly fair the sky over her head! So it ought to be in people's hearts, thought Dolly;--so in mine. And if it were, I should not be afraid of anything that was right to do. And this _is_ right to do.
Dolly avoided the saloon where the rest of the family were, and betook herself to her own room; to consider and to pray over her difficulties, and also to get rid of a few tears and bring her face into its usual cheerful order. When at last she went down, she found her mother alone, but her father almost immediately joined them. The windows were open towards the sea, the warm, delicious air stole in caressingly, the scent of roses and orange blossoms and carnations filled the house and seemed to fill the world; moonlight trembled on the leaves of the fig-tree, and sent lines of silver light into the room. The lamp was lowered and Mrs. Copley sat doing nothing, in a position of satisfied enjoyment by the window.
As Dolly came in by one door, Mr. Copley entered by another, and flung himself down on a chair; his action speaking neither enjoyment nor satisfaction.
"Well!" said he. "How much longer do you think you can stand this sort of thing?"
"What sort of thing, father?"
"Do you sit in the dark usually?"
"Come here, father," said Dolly, "come to the window and see the moonshine on the sea. Do you call that dark?"