"Oh no," said Dolly, with her sweet gleam of a smile, which went all over her face; "I am not lonesome."
"Will you come and see me sometimes?"
"If I can. Thank you, Lady Brierley."
"You seem to me to be a good deal of a philosopher," said the lady, who evidently still found Dolly a puzzle. "Or is it rather an artist, that I should say?"--glancing at the drawing-table--"I know artists are very sufficient to themselves."
"I am neither one nor the other," said Dolly, laughing.
"You are not apathetic--I can see that. What is your secret, Miss Copley?"
"I beg your pardon--what secret does your ladyship mean?"
"Your secret of content and self-reliance. Pardon me--but you excite my envy and curiosity at once."
Dolly's look went back to the fire. "I have no secret," she said gravely. "I am not a philosopher. I am afraid I am not always contented. And yet I _am_ content," she added, "with whatever the Lord gives me. I know it is good."
Lady Brierley saw tears in the eyes, which were so singularly wise and innocent at once. She was more and more interested, but would not follow Dolly's last lead. "What do you draw?" she asked, again turning her head towards the drawing materials.
"Whatever comes in my way," said Dolly. "Likenesses, sometimes; little bits of anything I like."
Lady Brierley begged to be shown a specimen of the likenesses; and forthwith persuaded Dolly to come and make a picture of herself. With which agreement the visit ended.
If she had come some months ago, thought Dolly as she looked after the retreating figure of her visitor, I should have liked it. She might have been a friend, and a great help. Now, I don't think you can, my lady!
CHAPTER XXXI.
HANDS FULL.
Dolly was, however, partly mistaken. Lady Brierley was a help. First, for the likenesses. Dolly painted so charming a little picture of her ladyship that it was a perpetual letter of recommendation; Lady Brierley's friends desired to have Dolly's pencil do the same service for them; neighbouring families saw and admired her work and came to beg to have her skill exerted on their behalf; and, in short, orders flowed in upon Dolly to the full occupation of all the time she had to give to them. They paid well, too. For that, Dolly had referred to Lady Brierley to say what the price ought to be; and Lady Brierley, guessing need on the one hand and knowing abundance on the other, had set the price at a very pretty figure; and money quite piled itself up in Dolly's secret hoard. She was very glad of it; for her supplies from her father became more and more precarious. He seemed to shut his eyes when he came to Brierley, and not recognise the fact that anything was wanting or missing. And well Dolly knew that such wilful oversight could never happen if Mr. Copley were himself doing true and faithful work; she knew he was going in false and dangerous ways, without being able to follow him and see just what they were. Her one comfort was, that her mother did not seem to read the signs that were so terribly legible to herself.
And here too Lady Brierley's new-found friendship was of use. She wrought a diversion for the girl's troubled spirits. She was constantly having Dolly at the House. Dolly objected to leaving her mother; at the same time Mrs. Copley very much objected to have Dolly stay at home when such chances offered; so, at first to paint, and then to give her sweet company, Dolly went often, and spent hours at a time with Lady Brierley, who on her part grew more and more fond of having the little American girl in her society. Dolly was a novelty, and a mystery, and a beauty. Lady Brierley's son was in Russia; so there was no harm in her being a beauty, but the contrary; it was pleasant to the eyes. And Dolly was _nave_, and fresh, and independent too, with a manner as fearless and much more frank than Lady Brierley's own, and yet with as simple a reserve of womanly dignity as any lady could have; and how a girl that painted likenesses for money, and made her own bread, and learned cookery of Mrs. Jersey, could talk to Lord Brierley with such sweet, quiet freedom, was a puzzle most puzzling to the great lady. So it was to others, for at Brierley House Dolly often saw a great deal of company. It did her good; it refreshed her; it gave her a world of things to tell for the amusement of her mother; and besides all that, she felt that Lady Brierley was really a friend, and would be kind if occasion were; indeed, she was kind now.
Dolly needed it all, for darker days were coming, and the shadow of them was "cast before," as the manner is. With every visit of Mr.
Copley to the cottage, Dolly grew more uneasy. He was not looking well, nor happy, nor easy; his manner was constrained, his spirits were forced; and for all that appeared, he might suppose that Dolly and her mother could live on air. He gave them nothing else to live on. What did he live on himself, Dolly queried, besides wine? and she made up her mind that, hard as it was, and doubtful as the effect, she must have a talk with him the next time he came down. "O father, father!"
she cried to herself in the bitterness of her heart, "how can you! how can you! how can you! It never, never ought to be, that a child is ashamed for her father! The world is turned upside down."
How intensely bitter it was, the children who have always been proud of their parents can never know. Dolly wrung her hands sometimes, in a distress that was beyond tears; and then devoted herself with redoubled ardour to her mother, to prevent her from finding out how things were going. She would have a plain talk with her father the next time he came, very difficult as she felt it would be; things could not go on as they were; or at least, not without ending in a thorough breakdown. But what we purpose is one thing; what we are able to execute is often quite another thing.
It was a week or two before Mr. Copley made his appearance. Dolly was looking from the window, and saw the village fly drive up and her father get out of it. She announced the fact to her mother, and then ran down to the garden gate to meet him. As their hands encountered at the gate, Dolly almost fell back; took her hand from the latch, and only put it forth again when she saw that her father could not readily get the gate open. He was looking ill; his gait was tottering, his eye wavering, and when he spoke his utterance was confused. Dolly felt as if a lump of ice had suddenly come where her heart used to be.
"You are not well, father?" she said as they went up the walk together.
"Well enough," returned Mr. Copley--"all right directly. Cursed wet weather--got soaked to the bone--haven't got warm yet."
"Wet weather!" said Dolly; "why, it is very sunny and warm. What are you thinking of, father?"
"Sun don't _always_ shine in England," said Mr. Copley. "Let me get in and have a cup of tea or coffee. You don't keep such a thing as brandy in the house, do you?"
"You have had brandy enough already," said Dolly in a low, grave voice.
"I will make some coffee. Come in--why, you are trembling, father! Are you _cold?_"
"Haven't been warm for three days. Cold? yes. Coffee, Dolly, let me have some coffee. It's the vilest climate a man ever lived in."
"Why, father," said Dolly, laying her hand on his sleeve, "your coat is wet! What have you done to yourself?"
"Wet? no,--it isn't. I put on a dry coat to come down--wouldn't be such a fool as to put on a wet one. Coffee, Dolly! It's cold enough for a fire."
"But how _did_ your coat get wet, father?"
"'Tisn't wet. I left a wet coat in London--had enough of it. If you go out in England you must get wet. Give me some coffee, if you haven't got any brandy. I tell you, I've never been warm since."
Dolly ran up stairs, where Mrs. Copley was making a little alteration in her dress.
"Mother," she cried, "will you go down and take care of father? He is not well; I am afraid he has taken cold; I am going to make him some coffee as fast as I can. Get him to change his coat;--it is wet."
Then Dolly ran down again, every nerve in her trembling, but forcing herself to go steadily and methodically to work. She made a cup of strong coffee, cooked a nice bit of beefsteak she had in the house, rejoicing that she had it; and while the steak was doing she made a plate of toast, such as she knew both father and mother were fond of.
In half an hour she had it all ready and carried it up on a tray. Mrs.
Copley was sitting with an anxious and perplexed face watching her husband; he had crept to the empty fireplace and was leaning towards it as towards a place whence comfort ought to be looked for. His wife had persuaded him to exchange the wet coat for an old dressing-gown, which change, however, seemed to have wrought no bettering of affairs.
"What is the matter?" said poor Mrs. Copley with a scared face. "I can't make out anything from what he says."
"He has caught cold, I think," said Dolly very quietly; though her face was white, and all the time of her ministrations in the kitchen she had worked with that feeling of ice at her heart. "Father, here is your coffee, and it is good; maybe this will make you feel better."
She had set her dishes nicely on the table; she had poured out the coffee and cut a piece of the steak; but Mr. Copley would look at no food. He drank a little coffee, and set the cup down.
"Sloppy stuff! Haven't you got any brandy?"
"You have had brandy already this afternoon, father. Take the coffee now."
"Brandy? my teeth were chattering, and I took a wretched glass somewhere. Do give me some more, Dolly! and stop this shaking."
"Where did you get cold, Mr. Copley?" asked his wife. "You have caught a terrible cold."
"Nothing of the kind. I am all right. Just been in the rain; rain'll wet any man; my coat's got it."
"But _when_, Frank?" urged his wife. "There has been no rain to-day; it is clear, hot summer weather. When were you in the rain?"
"I don't know. Rain's rain. It don't signify when. Have you got nothing better than this? I shall not stop shaking till morning."
And he did not. They got him to bed, and sat and watched by him, the mother and daughter; watching the feverish trembling, and the feverish flush that gradually rose in his cheeks. They could get no more information as to the cause of the mischief. The truth was, that two or three nights previous, Mr. Copley had sat long at play and drunk freely; lost freely too; so that when at last he went home, his condition of mind and body was so encumbered and confused that he took no account of the fact that it was raining heavily. He was heated, and the outer air was refreshing; Mr. Copley walked home to his lodgings; was of course drenched through; and on getting home had no longer clearness of perception enough in exercise to know that he must take off his wet clothes. How he passed the night he never knew; but the morning found him very miserable, and he had been miserable ever since.
Pains and aches, flushes of heat, creepings of inexplicable cold, would not be chased away by any potations his landlady recommended or by the stronger draughts to which Mr. Copley's habits bade him recur; and the third day, with something of the same sort of dumb instinct which makes a wounded or sick animal draw back to cover, he threw himself into the post coach and went down to Brierley. Naturally, he took advantage of stopping places by the way to get something to warm him; and so reached home at last in an altogether muddled and disordered state of mind and body.
Neither Mrs. Copley nor Dolly would go to bed that night. Not that there was much to do, but there was much to fear; and they clung in their fear to each other's company. Mrs. Copley dozed in an easy-chair part of the time; and Dolly sat at the open window with her head on the sill and lost herself there in slumber that was hardly refreshing. The night saw no change; and the morning was welcome, as the morning is in times of sickness, because it brought stir and the necessity of work to be done.
It was still early when Dolly, after refreshing herself with water and changing her dress, went downstairs. She opened the hall door, and stood still a moment. The summer morning met her outside, fresh with dew, heavy with the scent of roses, musical with the song of birds; dim, sweet, full of life, breathing loveliness, folding its loveliness in mystery. As yet, things could be seen but confusedly; the dark bank of Brierley Park with its giant trees rose up against the sky, there was no gleam on the little river, the outlines of nearer trees and bushes were merged and indistinct; but what a hum and stir and warble and chitter of happy creatures! how many creatures to be happy! and what a warm breath of incense told of the blessings of the summer day in store for them! For them, and not for Dolly? It smote her hard, the question and the answer. It was for her too; it ought to be for her; the Lord's will was that all His creatures should be happy; and some of his creatures would not! Some refused the rich invitation, and would neither take themselves nor let others take the bountiful, tender, blessed gifts of God. It came to Dolly with an unspeakable sore pain.