"Have you seen anything of the great people?" he asked one evening, when Dolly had moved his sudden admiration.
"Do you mean the people at the House?" his wife said. "No, of course.
Don't you know, Mr. Copley, you must be great yourself to have the great look at you."
"Humph! There are different ways of being great. I shouldn't wonder, now, if you could show Lady Brierley as much as Lady Brierley could show you--in some ways."
"What extravagant notions you do have, Frank," said his wife. "You are so much of an American, you forget everybody around you is English."
"Lady Brierley has been only a little while come home," said Dolly. "We need not discuss her yet."
And so speaking, Dolly brought out the Bible. The reading with her mother had become a regular thing now, greatly helpful to Mrs. Copley's good rest, Dolly believed, both by day and night; and latterly when he had been at the cottage her father had not run away when she brought her book. Alone with her mother, Dolly had long since added prayer to the reading; not yet in her father's presence. Her heart beat a little, it cost an effort; all the same Dolly knew it must now be done. With a grave little face she brought out her Bible, laid it on the table, and opened it at the fifth chapter of Matthew.
"Here comes our domestic chaplain!" said her father. Dolly looked up at him and smiled.
"Then of course you would not interfere with anything the chaplain does?" she said.
"Only not preach," said her father in the same tone. "I don't approve of any but licensed preaching. And that one need not hear unless one has a mind to."
"I let the Bible do the preaching, generally," said Dolly. "But we do pray, father."
"Who?" said Mr. Copley quickly. "Your mother and you? Everybody prays, I hope, now and then."
"We do it now, and then too, father. Or rather, _I_ do it now, after reading."
Mr. Copley made no reply; and Dolly went on, feeling that the way was open to her, if it were also a little difficult to tread. She read part of the chapter, feeling every word through and through. Alas, alas, alas! The "poor in spirit," the "pure in heart," the "meek,"--where were these? and what had their blessing to do with the ears to which she was reading? The "persecuted for righteousness' sake,"--how she knew her father and mother would lay that off upon the martyrs of olden time, with whom and their way of life, they thought, the present time has nothing to do! and so, with the persecuted dismiss the meek and the pure. The blessings referred certainly to a peculiar set of persons; no one is called on in these days to endure persecution. Dolly knew how they would escape applying what they heard to themselves; and she knew, with her heart full, what they were missing thereby. She went on, feeling every word so thrillingly that it was no wonder they came from her lips with a very peculiar and moving utterance; that is the way with words that are spoken from the heart; and although indeed the lovely sentences might have passed by her hearers, as trite or unintelligible or obsolete, the inflexions of Dolly's voice caught the hearts of both parents and stirred them involuntarily with an answering thrill. She did not know it; she did know that they were very still and listening; and after the reading was done, though she trembled a little, her own feelings were so roused that it was not very difficult for Dolly to kneel down by the table and pray.
But she had only scanty opportunities of working upon her father in this or in any way; Mr. Copley's visits to Brierley, always short, began now to be more and more infrequent.
As weeks went on and the spring slipped by, another thing was unmistakable about these visits; Mr. Copley brought less money with him. Through the autumn and winter, the needs of the little household had been indifferently well supplied. Dolly had paid her servants and had money for her butcher and grocer. Now this was no longer always the case. Mr. Copley came sometimes with empty pockets and a very thin pocket-book; he had forgotten, he said; or, he would make it all right next time. Which Dolly found out he never did. Her servants' wages began to get in arrear, and Dolly herself consequently into anxious perplexity. She had, she knew, a little private stock of her own, gained by her likenesses and other drawings; but like a wise little woman as she was, Dolly resolved she would not touch it unless she came to extremity. But what should she do? Just one thing she was clear upon; she would _not_ run in debt; she would not have what she could not pay for. She paid off one servant and dismissed her. This could not happen without the knowledge of Mrs. Copley.
"But however are you going to manage? the latter asked in much concern.
"Honestly, mother. Oh, and nicely too. You will see. I must be a poor thing if I could not keep these little rooms in order."
"And make beds? and set tables? and wash dishes?"
"I like to set tables. And what is it to wash two cups and spoons? And if I make the beds, we shall have them comfortable."
"Jane certainly had her own ideas about making beds, and they were different from mine," said Mrs. Copley. "But I hate to have you, Dolly.
It will make your hands red and rough."
"Nothing does that for my hands, luckily, mother, dear. Don't you mind.
We shall get on nicely."
"But what's the matter? haven't you got money enough?"
"Mother, I won't have servants that I cannot pay punctually."
"Don't your father give you money to pay them?"
"He gave me money enough to pay part; so I pay part, and send the other part away," said Dolly gaily.
"I _hope_ he has not got into speculation again," said Mrs. Copley. "I can't think what he busies himself about in London."
This subject Dolly changed as fast as she could. She feared something worse than speculation. Whether it were cards, or dice, or betting, or more business-like forms of the vice, however, the legitimate consequences were not slow to come; the supply of money for the little household down at Brierley became like the driblets of a stream which has been led off from its proper bed by a side channel; only a few trickling drops instead of the full, natural current. Dolly could not get from her father the means to pay the wages of her remaining servant. This was towards the beginning of summer.
Dolly pondered now very seriously what she should do. The lack of a housemaid she had made up quite comfortably with her own two busy hands; Mrs. Copley at least had been in particular comfort, whenever she did not get a fit of fretting on Dolly's account; and Dolly herself had been happy, though unquestionably the said hands had been very busy. Now what lay before her was another thing. She could not consult her mother, and there was nobody else to consult; she must even make up her mind as to the line of duty the best way she might; and however the difficulty and even the impossibility of doing without anybody stared her in the face, it was constantly met by the greater impossibility of taking what she could not pay for. Dolly made up her mind on the negative view of the case; what she _could_ being not clear, only what she could not. She would dismiss her remaining servant, and do the cooking herself. It would be only for two. And perhaps, she thought, this step would go further to bring her father to his senses than any other step she could take.
Dolly, however, went wisely to work. Quite alone in the house she and her mother could not be. She went to her friend Mrs. Jersey and talked the matter over with her; and through her got a little girl, a small farmer's daughter, to come and do the rough work. She let her mother know as little as possible about the matter; she took some of her own little stock and paid off the cook, representing to her mother no more than that she had exchanged the one helpmeet for the other. But poor Dolly found presently that she did not know how to cook. How should she?
"What's become of all our good bread?" said Mrs. Copley, a day or two after the change. "And, Dolly, I don't know what you call this, but if it is meant for hash, it is a mistake."
Dolly heard in awed silence; and when dinner and breakfast had seen repeated animadversions of the like kind, she made up her mind again and took her measures. She went to her friend Mrs. Jersey, and asked her to teach her to make bread.
"To make bread!" the good housekeeper repeated in astonishment. "You, Miss Dolly? Can that be necessary?"
"Mother cannot eat poor bread," said Dolly simply. "And there is nobody but me to make it. I think I can learn, Mrs. Jersey; cannot I?"
The tears stood in the good woman's eyes. "But, my dear Miss Dolly,"
she began anxiously, "this is a serious matter. You do not look very strong. Who does the rest of the cooking? Pardon me for being so bold to ask; but I am concerned about you."
Therewith Dolly's own eyes became moist; however, it would never do to take that tone; so she shook off the feeling, and confessed she was the sole cook in her mother's establishment, and that for her mother's well-doing it was quite needful that what she eat should be good and palatable. And Dolly declared she would like to know how to do things, and be independent.
"You've got the realest sort of independence," said the housekeeper.
"Well, my dear, come, and I'll teach you all you want to know."
There followed now a series of visits to the House, in which Mrs.
Jersey thoroughly fulfilled her promise. In the kind housekeeper's room Dolly learned not only to make bread and biscuit, and everything else that can be concocted of flour, but she was taught how to cook a bit of beefsteak, how to broil a chicken, how to make omelettes and salads and a number of delicate French dishes; stews and soups and ragouts and no end of comfortable things. Dolly was in great earnest, therefore lost not a hint and never forgot a direction; she was quick and keen to learn; and Mrs. Jersey soon declared laughingly that she believed she was born to be a cook.
"And it goes great qualities to that, Miss Dolly," she said. "You needn't take it as low praise. There are people, no doubt, that are nothing _but_ cooks; that's the fault of something else, I always believe. Whoever can be a real cook can be something better if he has a chance and a will."
"It seems to me, it is just common sense, Mrs. Jersey."
"I suppose you are not going to tell me that _that_ grows on every bush? Yes, common sense has a great deal to do, no doubt; but one must have another sort of sense; one must know when a thing is right; and one must be able to tell the moment of time when it is right, and then one must be decided and quick to take it then and not let it have the other moment which would make it all wrong. Now, Miss Dolly, I see you know when to take off an omelette--and yet you couldn't tell me how you know."
Dolly's learning was indeed by practising with her own hands. One day it happened that Lady Brierley had come into the housekeeper's room to see about some arrangements she was making for Mrs. Jersey's comfort.
While she was there, Dolly opened the door from an adjoining light closet, with her sleeves rolled up to her elbows and her arms dusted with flour. Seeing somebody whom she did not know, Dolly retreated, shutting the door after her.
"Whom have you got there, Mrs. Jersey?" said the lady, forgetting what she had come about. "That girl is too handsome to be among the maids."
"She's not among the maids, my lady. She is not in the house. She only came to get some instruction from me, which I was very glad to give her?"
"Of course. That is quite in your way. But she does not belong in the village, I think?"
"No, my lady, nor hereabouts at all, properly. She lives in Brierley Cottage; she and her mother; I believe the father is there now and by times, but they live alone mostly, and he is in London. They have been much better off; and last year they went travelling all through Europe.
I thought I should never see them again; but here they are back, and have been for a year."
"I think I have heard of them. Are they poor?"