"Not in some months."
"Are they at Sorrento yet?"
"No; they spent the winter in Rome, and this summer they are in Switzerland. I had a letter from Miss Thayer the other day. I mean, a few weeks ago."
It occurred to Dolly that one or the other of them must be a slack correspondent.
"I almost wonder they could leave Sorrento," she remarked.
"They got tired of it."
"I never get tired of lovely things," said Dolly. "The longer I know them the better pleasure I take in them. I could have stayed in Venice, it seemed to me, for years; and Rome--I should never have got away from Rome of my own accord, if duty had not made me; and then at Naples, I enjoyed it better the last day than the first. And Sorrento"----
"What about Sorrento?"
"Oh, it was--you know what Sorrento is. It was roses and myrtles and orange blossoms, and the fire of the pomegranate flowers and the grey of the olives; and the Italian sun, and the Italian air; and, Mr.
Shubrick, you know what the Mediterranean is, with all its colours under the shadow of the cliffs and the sunlight on the open sea. And Vesuvius was always a delightful wonder to me. And the people were so nice. Sorrento is perfect." A soft breath of a sigh came from Dolly's heart.
"You do not like England so well?"
"No. Oh no! But I could like England. Mr. Shubrick, my time at Sorrento was almost without care; and you know that makes a difference."
"Would you like to live without care?" said he.
Dolly looked at him, the question seemed so strange. "Without anxious care--I should," she answered.
"That you may, anywhere."
"How is it possible, sometimes?" Dolly asked wistfully.
"May I be Yankee enough to answer your question by another? Is it any relief to you to have me come in and take the watch for to-night?"
"The greatest," said Dolly. "I cannot express to you how great it is; for mother and I have had it all to do for so long. I cannot tell you, Mr. Shubrick, in what a strange lull of rest I have been sitting here since we came downstairs. I have just let my hands fall."
"How can you be sure it is safe to do that?" he said, smiling.
"Oh," said Dolly, "I know you will take care; and while you do, I need not."
Mr. Shubrick was silent. Dolly pondered.
"Do I know what you mean?" she said.
"I think you do," he replied. "Do you remember it is written, --'Casting your care upon Him, _for He careth for you_'?"
"And that means, not to care myself?"
"Not anxiously, or doubtfully. You cannot trust your care to another, and at the same time keep it yourself."
"I know all that," said Dolly slowly; "or I thought I knew it. How is it, then, that it is so difficult to get the good of it?"
"Was it very difficult to trust me?" Mr. Shubrick asked.
"No," said Dolly, "because--you know you are not a stranger, Mr.
Shubrick. I feel as if I knew you."
He lifted his eyes and looked at her; not regarding the compliment to himself, but with a steady, keen eye carrying Dolly's own words home to her. He did not say a word; but Dolly changed colour.
"Oh, do you mean _that?_" she cried, almost with tears. "Is it because I know Christ so poorly that I trust Him so slowly?"
"What else can it be? And you know, Miss Dolly, just that absolute trust is the thing the Lord wants of us. And you know it is the thing of all others that we like from one another. We need not be surprised that He likes it; for we were made in His image."
Dolly sat silent, struck and moved both with sorrow and gladness; for if it were possible so to lay down care, what more could burden her?
and that she had not done it, testified to more strangeness and distance on her part towards her best Friend than she liked to think of. Her musings were interrupted by Mr. Shubrick.
"Now may I be introduced to Mr. Copley?" he said.
Dolly was rather doubtful about the success of this introduction.
However, she brought her mother out of the sick-room, and took Mr.
Shubrick in; and there, in obedience to his desire, left him, without an introduction; for her father was asleep.
"He will never let him stay there, Dolly," said Mrs. Copley. "He will not bear it at all." And Dolly waited and feared and hoped. But the night drew on, and came down upon the world; Mrs. Copley went to bed, at Dolly's earnest suggestion, and was soon fast asleep, fatigue carrying it over anxiety; and Dolly watched and listened in vain for sounds of unrest from her father's room. None came; the house was still; the summer night was deliciously mild; Dolly's eyelids trembled and closed, and opened, and finally closed again, not to open till the summer morning was bright and the birds making a loud concert of their morning song.
Mr. Shubrick, left alone with his patient, sat down and waited; reviewing meanwhile the room and his surroundings. It was a moderate-sized, neat, pretty room, with one window looking out upon the garden. The casement was two-leaved, and one leaf only was part open.
The air consequently was close and hot. And if the room was neat, that applies only to its natural and normal condition; for if neatness includes tidiness, it could not be said at present to deserve that praise. There was an indescribable litter everywhere, such as is certain to accumulate in a sick-room if the watchers are not imbued with the spirit of order. Here were one or two spare pillows, on so many chairs; over the back of another chair hung Mr. Copley's dressing-gown; at a very unconnected distance from his slippers under a fourth chair. On still another chair lay a plate and knife with the remains of an orange; on the mantelpiece, the rest of the chairs, the tables, and even the floor, stood a miscellaneous assortment of cups, glasses, saucers, bottles, spoons, and pitchers, large and small, attached to as varied an assemblage of drinks and medicines. Only one medicine was to be given from time to time, Mr. Shubrick had been instructed; and that was marked, and he recognised it; what were all the rest of this assemblage doing here? Some books lay about also, and papers, and magazines; here a shawl, there some articles of female apparel; and a basket of feminine work. The litter was general, and somewhat disheartening to a lover of order; Mrs. Copley being one of those people who have nothing of the sort belonging to them, and indeed during the most of her life accustomed to have somebody else keep order for her; servants formerly, Dolly of late. Mr. Shubrick sat and looked at all these things, but made no movement, until by and by his patient awoke. It was long past sunset now, the room in partial twilight, yet illumination enough still reflected from a very bright sky for the two people there to see each what the other looked like. Mr. Copley used his eyes in this investigation for a few minutes in silence.
"Who are you?" he inquired abruptly.
"A friend."
"What friend? You are a friend I don't know."
"That is true; but it will not be true to-morrow," Mr. Shubrick said quietly.
"What are you here for?"
"To act the part of a friend, if you will allow me. I am here to wait upon you, Mr. Copley."
"Thank you, I prefer my own people about me," said the sick man curtly.
"You may go, and send them, or some of them, to me."
"I cannot do that," said the stranger, "and you must put up with me for to-night. Mrs. Copley and your daughter are both very tired, and need rest."
"Humph!" said the invalid with a surprised grunt. "Did _they_ send you here?"
"No. They permitted me to come. I take it as a great privilege."
"You take it before you have got it. I have not given my leave yet.
What are you doing there?"