Yes, the Lord's will was peace and joy and plenty for them all; fulness of gracious supply; the singing of delighted hearts, loving and praising Him. And men made their own choice to have something else, and brought bitterness into what was meant to be only sweet. Tears came slowly into her eyes, mournful tears, and rolled down her cheeks hopelessly. Whatever was to become now of her little family? Her father, she feared, was entering upon a serious illness, which might last no one knew how long. Who would nurse him? and if Dolly did, who would do the work of the household? and if her father was laid by for any considerable time, whence were needful supplies to come from?
Dolly's little stock would not last for ever. And how would her mother stand the strain and the care and the fatigue? It seemed to Dolly as she stood there at the door, that her sky was closing in and the ground giving way beneath her feet. Usually she kept up her courage bravely; just now it failed.
"Dolly," her mother's voice came smothered from over the balusters of the upper hall.
"Yes, mother?"
"Send Nelly for the doctor as soon as you can."
"Yes, mother. As soon as it is light enough."
The doctor! that was another thought. Then there would be the doctor's bill. But at this point Dolly caught herself up. "_Take no thought for the morrow_"--what did that mean? "_Be careful for nothing;_ but in everything by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known unto God." And, "Who shall separate us from the love of Christ?" The words loosed the bands which seemed to have bound Dolly's heart in iron; she broke down, fell down on her knees in the porch, resting her head on the seat, and burst into a thunder-shower of weeping, which greatly cleared the air and relieved the oppression under which she had been labouring. This was nearly as uncommon a thing for Dolly as her former hopeless mood; she rose up feeling shaken, and yet strengthened. Ready for duty.
She went into the little sitting-room, set open the casement, and put the furniture in order, dusting and arranging. Leaving that all right, Dolly went down to the kitchen and made the fire. She was thinking what she should do for breakfast, when her little handmaid made her appearance. Dolly gave her some bread and butter and cold coffee, and sent her off to the village with a note to the doctor which she had meanwhile prepared. Left to herself then, she put on her kettle, and looked at the untouched pieces of beefsteak she had cooked last night.
She knew what to do with them, thanks to Mrs. Jersey. The next thing was to go out into the dewy garden and get a handful of different herbs and vegetables growing there; and what she did with them I will not say; but in a little while Dolly had a most savoury mess prepared. Then she crept upstairs to her mother. Here everything was just as it had been all night. Dolly whispered to her mother to come down and have some breakfast. Mrs. Copley shook her head.
"You must, mother, dear. I have got something nice--and father is sleeping; he don't want you. Come! I have got it in the kitchen, for Nelly is away, and it's less trouble, and keeps the coffee hot. Come!
father won't want anything for a little while, and you and I do, and must have it, or we cannot stand what is on our hands. Come, mother.
Wash your face, and it will refresh you, and come right down."
The little kitchen was very neat; the window was open and the summer morning looking in; nobody was there but themselves; and so there might be many a worse place to take breakfast in. And the meal prepared was dainty, though simple. Mrs. Copley could not eat much, nor Dolly; and yet the form of coming to breakfast and the nicety of the preparation were a comfort; they always are; they seem to say that all things are not confusion, and give a kind of guaranty for the continuance of old ways. Still, Mrs. Copley did not eat much, and soon went back to her watch; and Dolly cleared the table and considered what she could have for dinner. For dinner must be as usual; on that she was determined.
But the doctor's coming was the next thing on the programme.
The doctor came and made his visit, and Dolly met him in the hall as he was going away. He was a comfortable-looking man, with the long English whiskers; ruddy and fleshy; one who, Dolly was sure, had no objection, for his own part, to a good glass of wine, or even a good measure of beer, if the wine were not forthcoming.
"Your father, is it?" said the doctor. "Well, take care of him--take care of him."
"How shall we take care of him, sir?"
"Well, I've left medicines upstairs. He won't want much to eat; nor much of anything, for a day or two."
"What is it? Cold?"
"No, my young lady. Fever."
"He got himself wet in the rain, a few days ago. He was shivering last night."
"Very likely. That's fever. Must take its course. He's not shivering now."
"Will he be long ill, sir, probably?"
"Impossible to say. These things are not to be counted upon. May get up in a day or two, but far more likely not in a week or two. Good morning!"
A week or two! Dolly stood and looked after the departing chaise which carried the functionary who gave judgment so easily on matters of life and death. The question came back. What would become of her mother and her, if watching and nursing had to be kept up for weeks?--with all the rest there was to do. Dolly felt very blue for a little while; then she shook it off again and took hold of her work. Nelly had returned by this time, with a knuckle of veal from the butcher's. Dolly put it on, to make the nicest possible delicate stew for her mother; and even for her father she thought the broth might, do. She gathered herbs and vegetables in the garden again, and a messenger came from Mrs. Jersey with a basket of strawberries; Dolly wrote a note to go back with the basket, and altogether had a busy morning of it. For bread had also to be made; and her small helpmate was good for only the simplest details of scrubbing and sweeping and washing dishes. It was with the greatest difficulty after all that Dolly coaxed her mother to come down to dinner; Nelly being left to keep watch the while and call them if anything was wanted.
"I can't eat, Dolly!" Mrs. Copley said, when she was seated at Dolly's board.
"Mother, it is necessary. See--this is what you like, and it is very good, I know. And these potatoes are excellent."
"But, Dolly, he may be sick for weeks, for aught we can tell; it is a low fever. Oh, this is the worst of all we have had yet!" cried Mrs.
Copley, wringing her hands.
It did look so, and for a moment Dolly could not speak. Her heart seemed to stand still.
"Mother, we don't know," she said. "We do not know anything. It may be no such matter; it may _not_ last so; the doctor cannot tell; and anyhow, mother, God does know and He will take care. We can trust Him, can't we? and meanwhile what you and I have to do is to keep up our strength and our faith and our spirits. Eat your dinner like a good woman. I am going to make a cup of tea for you. Perhaps father would take some."
"And you," said Mrs. Copley, eyeing her. Dolly had a white kitchen apron on, it is true, but she was otherwise in perfect order and looked very lovely. "What about me?" she said.
"Doing kitchen work! You, who are fit for--something so different!"
Mrs. Copley had to get rid of some tears here.
"Doing kitchen work? Yes, certainly, if that is the thing given me to do. Why not? Isn't my veal good? I'll do anything, mother, that comes to hand, provided I _can_ do it. Mother, we don't trust half enough.
Remember who it is gives me the cooking to do. Shall I not do what He gives me? And I can tell you one little secret--I _like_ to do cooking.
Isn't it good?"
Mrs. Copley made a very respectable dinner after all.
This was the manner of the beginning of Mr. Copley's illness. Faith and courage were well tried as the days went on; for though never violently ill, he never mended. Day and night the same tedious low fever held him, wearing down not his strength only but that of the two whose unaided hands had to manage all that was done. Dolly did not know where to look for a nurse, and Mrs. Copley was utterly unwilling to have one called in. She herself roused to the emergency and ceased to complain about her own troubles; she sat up night after night, with only partial help from Dolly, who had her hands full with the care of the house and the day duty and the sick cookery. And as day after day went by, and night after night was watched through, and days and nights began to run into weeks, the strength and nervous energy of them both began at times to fail. Neither showed it to the other, except as pale faces and weary eyes told their story. Mrs. Copley cried in secret, at night, with her head on the window-sill; and Dolly went with slow foot to gather her herbs and vegetables, and sat down sometimes in the porch, in the early dawn or the evening gloom, and allowed herself to own that things were looking very dark indeed. The question was, how long would it be possible to go on as they were doing? how long would strength hold out?--and money? The doctor's fees took great pinches out of Dolly's fund; and for the present there was no adding to it. Lady Brierley was away; she had gone to the seaside. Mrs. Jersey was very kind; fruit and eggs and vegetables came almost daily from the House to Dolly's help, and the kind housekeeper herself had offered to sit up with the sick man; but this offer was refused. Mr. Copley did not like to see any stranger about him. And Dolly and her mother were becoming now very tired. As the weeks went on, they ceased to look in each other's faces any more with questioning eyes; they knew too well how anxiety and effort had told upon both of them, and each was too conscious of what the other was thinking and fearing. They did not meet each other's eyes with those mute demands in them any more; but they stole stealthy glances sometimes each to see how the other face looked; what tokens of wear and tear it was showing; taking in at a rapid view the lines of weariness, the marks of anxiety, the faded colour, the languor of spirit which had gradually taken the place of the earlier energy. In word and action they showed none of all this. All the more, no doubt, when each was alone and the guard might be relaxed, a very grave and sorrowful expression took possession of their faces. Nothing else might be relaxed. Day and night the labour and the watch were unintermitting.
And so the summer wore on to an end. Dolly was patient, but growing very sad; perhaps taking a wider view of things than her mother, who for the present was swallowed up in the one care about her husband's condition. Dolly, managing the finances and managing the household, had both parents to think of; and was sometimes almost in despair.
She was sitting so one afternoon in the kitchen, in a little lull of work before it was time to get supper, looking out into the summer glow. It was warm in the small kitchen, but Dolly had not energy to go somewhere else for coolness. She sat gazing out, and almost querying whether all things were coming to an end at once; life and the means to live together, and the strength to get means. And yet she remembered that it is written--"Trust in the Lord, and do good; so shalt thou dwell in the land, and _verily thou shalt be fed_." But then,--it came cold into her heart,--it could not be said that her father and mother had ever fulfilled those conditions; could the promise be good for _her_ faith alone? And truly, where was Dolly's faith just now? Withal, as she sat gazing out of the window, she saw that full wealth of summer, which was a pledge and proof of the riches of the hand from which it came.
"There's a gentleman, mum," Dolly's little helpmate announced in her ear. Dolly started.
"A gentleman? what gentleman? It isn't the doctor? He has been here."
"It's no him. I knows Dr. Hopley. It's no him."
"I cannot see company. Is it company, Nelly?"
"The gentleman didn't say, mum."
"Where is he?"
"He's a standin' there at the door."
Dolly slowly rose up and doubtfully took off her great kitchen apron; doubtfully went upstairs. Perhaps she had better see who it was. Mrs.
Jersey might have sent a messenger,--or Lady Brierley! She went on to the hall door, which was open, and where indeed she saw a tall figure against the summer glow which filled all out of doors. A tall figure, a tall, upright figure; at first Dolly could see only the silhouette of him against the warm outer light. She came doubtfully close up to the open door. Then she could see a little more besides the tallness; a peculiar uprightness of bearing, a manly, frank face, a head of close curling dark hair, and an expression of pleasant expectation; there was a half smile on the face, and a deferential look of waiting. He stood bareheaded before her, and had not the air of a stranger; but Dolly was quite bewildered. Somebody altogether strange, and yet somehow familiar. She said nothing; her eyes questioned why, being a stranger, he should stand there with such a look upon his face.
"I am afraid I am not remembered," said the gentleman, with the smile coming out a little more. His look, too, was steady and straightforward and observant,--where had Dolly seen that mixture of quietness and resoluteness? Her eyes fell to the little cap in his hand, an officer's cap, and then light came into them.
"Oh!" she cried,--"Mr. Shubrick!"
"It is a long time since that Christmas Day at Rome," he said; a more wistful gravity coming into his face as he better scanned the face opposite to him, which the evening light revealed very fully.
"Oh, I know now," said Dolly. "I do not need to be reminded; but I could not expect to see you here. I thought you were in the Mediterranean. Will you come in, Mr. Shubrick? I am very glad to see you; but my thoughts were so far away"----
"You thought I was in the Mediterranean?" he said as he followed Dolly in. "May I ask, why?"