Kitabı oku: «The End of a Coil», sayfa 32
Dolly had flushed and paled a little. She sat looking on the ground in silence. Mr. Shubrick let her have a while to herself, and then asked her what she thought of his plan?
"I don't know," said Dolly faintly. "I mean," she added, – "perhaps it is the best way. I don't know but it is the only way. I don't believe mother will like it."
"We will talk her over," said the young officer joyfully. "You said she wishes to go home?"
"Oh yes. And I think she will come over to our side, when she knows the reasons."
Sandie bent down and reverently kissed the hand he held.
"Then" – said Dolly, on whose cheek the flushes were coming and going, – but she did not finish her sentence.
"Then, what?"
"I was thinking to ask, how soon or when you expect your ship to go home?"
"I do not know certainly. Probably I shall be ordered home before Christmas; but it may not be till January."
Dolly was silent again.
"If our plan is carried out, you will go sooner, will you not?"
"Oh, immediately. As soon as possible."
"In that case you will be there before I shall. I told you, I have nobody very nearly belonging to me; but there is a cousin – a sort of cousin – living in the place; Mrs. Armitage; I will send her word to open the house and get it in some sort of order for us."
Both were silent again for a space, and I think not only one was happy. For Dolly knew the plan would work. But she was struggling besides with a thought which she wanted, and did not want, to speak. It must come out! or Dolly would not have been Dolly.
"Mr. Shubrick" – she began.
"What?" said he eagerly; for Dolly's tone showed that there was a good deal behind it.
"Would you – I was thinking" —
"About what?"
"The house. Would you – trust me? I mean, of course, if we are there before you?"
A flood of colour rushed over Dolly's face.
"Trust you?" he said with a bright light in his eyes. "What am I going to do all my life? Trust you to put your own house in order? I cannot think of anything I should like quite so well. What a delightful thought, Dolly!"
"I should like it," said Dolly shyly.
"Then, instead of writing to Mrs. Armitage to open the house, I will send her an order to deliver the key to Mrs. Shubrick."
He liked to watch how the colour flitted on her face, and the lines of brow and lip varied; how she fluttered like a caught bird, and yet a bird that did not want to fly away. Dolly was frank enough; there was nothing affected, or often even conscious, about this shy play; it was the purest nature in sweetest manifestation. Shyness was something Dolly had never been guilty of with anybody but Mr. Shubrick; it was an involuntary tribute she constantly paid to him.
CHAPTER XXXVI
THIS PICTURE AND THAT
The plan worked, as Dolly had known from the first, that it would. Mrs. Copley came into it, and then Mr. Copley could not resist. It only grieved Mrs. Copley's heart that there should be, as she said, no wedding. "Might as well be married in a barn!" she said.
The barn-like effect was a little taken off by Lord and Lady Brierley's presence at the ceremony, which to be sure was performed in no barn, but the pretty village church; and by the breakfast given to Dolly thereafter at the great house. This was not what Dolly or Mr. Shubrick had desired. It came about on this wise.
Dolly went to pay a farewell visit of thanks to Lady Brierley and to her good friend the housekeeper. Sandie accompanied her. Now, Mr. Shubrick was one of those persons who make their way in all companies. Lady Brierley, talking to Dolly, eyed the while the figure of the young officer, his face, and his fine, quiet, frank manners; watched him talking with her husband, who happened to come in; and also caught with her practised eye a glance or two of Dolly's. Dolly, be it remarked, was not shy here; before her noble friends, she neither flushed nor trembled nor was nervous. But Lady Brierley saw how things were.
"So," said her ladyship at last, when Dolly was about taking leave, – "you have not told me, but I know it, – you are going home to get married!"
"That would seem to be the natural order of things," said Sandie, as Dolly was not immediately ready with her answer; "but we are going to reverse the terms. We are purposing to be married first and then go home."
The lady looked at him with a curious mixture of expressions; it was too early in the century then for an officer of the American navy to be altogether a pleasant sight to the eyes of an Englishwoman; at the same time, she could not wholly withhold her liking from this young officer's fine looks and manly bearing. She turned to Dolly again.
"I hope you are going to ask me to your wedding," she said. "When is it to be, Dolly?"
"My mother thinks it does not deserve to be called a wedding," said Dolly, dimpling and growing rosy. "I should not have ventured to ask your ladyship. But if you are so kind – it is to be on the morning of the 10th – very early in the morning, for Mr. Shubrick has to set off that day to rejoin his ship."
"I'll get up by daybreak," said her ladyship, arching her brows, "if it is necessary. And you will come here from the church and have breakfast with me, will you? It would be a great pleasure to me."
So it had been arranged; and, as I said, Mrs. Copley had been a good deal comforted by the means. Lady Brierley's breakfast was beautiful; she had caused her rooms to be dressed with flowers in Dolly's honour; the company was small, but the more harmonious; and the presents given to Dolly were very handsome.
And now there is nothing more to do, but to give two pictures; and even for them there is hardly room.
The scene of the first, is a house in Harley Street, London. It is an excellent house, and just new furnished and put in cap-a-pie order from top to bottom. In the drawing-room a group of people taking a general survey. One of them a very handsome young man, in unexceptionable style, waiting upon two ladies; a beauty, and the beauty's mother. Things in the house meet approval.
"I think it is perfect," said Mrs. Thayer. "Just perfect. The man has done his work very well." She was referring to the upholsterer, and at the moment looking at the window curtains.
"Isn't that a lovely tint of French grey?" said Christina, "and the blue fringe is the right thing for it. I think the folds are a little too full – but it is a good fault. It is all right, I believe. I do like a drawing-room with no fault in it, no eye-sore."
"There could hardly be any fault in the work of Hans and Piccalilly," remarked St. Leger.
"Oh, I don't know, Lawrence," said the young lady. "Didn't they do the Fortescues' house? and the drawing-room is in white and gold; very pretty in itself, but just think how it will set off all those florid people. A bunch of peonies on a white ground!"
Lawrence laughed. "You can bear anything," he said. "But blue suits you."
"It's just perfect," Mrs. Thayer repeated. "I see nothing to find fault with. Yes, Christina can bear anything and wear anything. It saves a great deal of trouble. When I was a girl I had a different complexion. I wasn't a peony, but I was a rose – not a white rose; and anything shading on red I could not wear; not purple, nor claret, nor even ashes of roses. It was a regular perplexity, to get variety enough with the small number of shades at my disposal; for orange did not become me, either. Well, I can wear anything now, too," she added with a half laugh. "And it is nothing to anybody."
"Mamma, you know better than that," said Christina.
"Now," said Lawrence, "the question is, when shall we take possession? The house is all ready for us."
"There is no use in taking possession till we are ready to keep it; and it would be dull to stay in town all winter, wouldn't it?" said Christina. "Whatever should we do?"
"Very dull," said Mrs. Thayer. "It is a long while yet before the season begins. Better be anywhere else."
"I was thinking of Brighton," said Christina. "I think I should like that."
"After the Peacocks," said Lawrence. "We are due there, you know, for a visit."
"Oh, after the Peacocks, of course. But then, – do you think, Lawrence, we could do anything better than go to Brighton? Till the season opens?"
Brighton quite met Mr. St. Leger's views of what was desirable.
It was a month or two later, as it happened, that another house was undergoing inspection, a house at a very great distance from Harley Street, geographically and otherwise; but let the reader judge. This was a country house in a fair New England village; where there was land enough for everybody, and everybody had land, and in consequence the habitations of men were individually, as the habitations of men should be, surrounded with grass and trees and fields; the very external arrangements of the place giving thereby a type of the free and independent life and wide space for mental and characteristic development enjoyed by the inhabitants. The particular house in question was not outwardly remarkable above many others; it stood in a fair level piece of ground, shaded and surrounded with beautiful old American elms. The inspectors of the same were two ladies.
Dolly had come to the village a week or two before. Mr. Copley was not just then in condition to be left alone; so as her mother could not be with her, she had summoned her dear Aunt Hal, from Philadelphia; and Mr. Eberstein would not be left behind. All three they had come to this place, found quarters at the inn, and since then Dolly and Mrs. Eberstein had been very busy getting the house cleaned and put in order. The outside, as I said, gave promise of nothing remarkable; Dolly had been the more surprised and pleased to find the interior extremely pleasant and not commonplace. Rooms were large and airy; picturesquely arranged; and furnished, at least in part, in a style for which she had not been at all prepared. The house had been for a long stretch of years in the possession of a family, not wealthy, but well to do, and cultivated; and furthermore, several of the members of it at different times had been seafaring; and, as happens in such cases, there had been brought home from foreign parts a small multitude of objects of art or convenience which bore witness to distant industries and fashions. India mats of fine quality were on some of the floors; India hangings at some of the windows; beautiful china was found to be in quantity, both of useful and ornamental kinds. Little lacquered tables; others of curious inlaid work; bamboo chairs; Chinese screens and fans; and I know not what all besides. Dolly and Mrs. Eberstein reviewed these articles with great interest and admiration; they gave the house, simple as it was, an air of elegance which its exterior quite forbade one to look for. At the same time, some other necessary things were wanting, or worn. The carpet in what Dolly called the drawing-room was one of these instances. It was very much the worse for wear. Dolly and her aunt went carefully over everything; adjusting, supplying, arranging, here and there; Dolly getting a number of small presents by the way, and a few that were not small. At last Mr. Eberstein sent in a fine carpet for the drawing-room; and Dolly would not have it put down.
"Not till Mr. Shubrick comes," she said.
"Why not, my dear? this is threadbare," her aunt pleaded.
"Aunt Hal, I should not like to give the room a strange look. He may have associations with this old carpet, for anything I know."
"Men do not have 'associations' with things," said Mrs. Eberstein.
"Some men do, and perhaps he is one of them. At any rate, I want the house to look like home to him when he comes. I'll put down the carpet afterwards, if he likes it."
"I am afraid you are going to spoil him, Dolly," said Mrs. Eberstein, shaking her head. "I hope he is worthy of it all. But don't spoil him!"
"He is much more likely to spoil me, Aunt Hal."
"Spoil you!" exclaimed her aunt indignantly. "What do you know about it? O Dolly, Dolly! I hope you have got the right man!"
At which, however, Dolly showed all her dimples, and laughed so comically that Mrs. Eberstein, right or wrong, was obliged to laugh with her.
Mr. Copley had once said a true thing about his daughter; that if she married Mr. St. Leger she would be devoted to him. "If" – yes, so she would. And being now married to somebody else, Dolly was a very incarnation of loyalty to her husband. Alas, many another woman has trusted so, on less grounds, and made shipwreck; but Dolly's faith was well founded, and there was no shipwreck in store for her.
So the day came when all was in readiness, and the two ladies took a satisfied review of their work. It was the day when Mr. Shubrick was looked for home. The "Red Chief" had arrived in port; and Sandie had written that by the evening of this day he hoped to be at home. Everything was in order; fires were lighted; a servant installed below stairs; supper prepared; nothing left to be done anywhere. Dolly had seen to the supper carefully herself; indeed, for a day or two there had been some very thoughtful cooking and baking going on; which Mrs. Eberstein had watched with great interest, some amusement, and ever so little a bit of jealousy.
"Is Mr. Shubrick a difficult man to please?" she demanded.
"How can I tell?" said Dolly. "I have only seen him in our house, not in his own. He did not scold there; but how do I know what he may do here?"
"Scold!" repeated Mrs. Eberstein. "Dolly, I believe it would rouse all the wickedness there is in me, if anybody should scold you!"
Dolly flushed rosily, and then she fairly laughed out.
"I will tell you a secret, Aunt Hal," she said. "I don't mean that in this matter, at least, he shall find any occasion."
So the supper was ready, and the table was set, and fires were bright. Mrs. Eberstein stayed with Dolly till the evening began to fall, and then went back to the inn; averring that she would not for the universe be found in Mr. Shubrick's house when he came. Dolly stood at the window and watched her aunt's dark figure moving down to the gate, and then still stood at the window watching. It was all snow stillness outside.
There was a faint moonlight, which glistened on the white ground and bare elm branches. A few inches of snow had fallen the day before; the sun had thawed the surface slightly, and then it had frozen in a glittering smooth crust. It was still outside as only leafless winter can be, when there are no wings to flutter, or streams to trickle, or chirrup of insects to break the calm. Not a footfall, not a sleigh bell; not another light in sight, but only the moon. Anybody in the road might have seen another light, – that which came from Dolly's windows. She had been hard to suit about her arrangements; she would not have candles lit, for she did not wish an illumination that might make the interior visible to a chance passer-by; and yet she would not have the shutters shut, for the master of the house coming home must read his welcome from afar in rays of greeting from the windows. So she made up the fires and left the curtains open; and ruddy firelight streamed out upon the snow. It was bright enough to have revealed Dolly herself, only that the house stood back some distance from the road. Dolly watched and listened a while; then crossed the hall to the room on the other side, from the windows of which a like glow shone out. The fire was in order; the table stood ready. Dolly went back again. It was so still outside, as if Sandie never would come. She listened with her heart beating hard and fast.
For an hour and a half, perhaps; and then she heard the tinkle of sleigh bells. They might be somebody else's. But they came nearer, and very near, and stopped; only Dolly heard a mixed jangle of the bells, as if the horse had thrown his head up and given a confused shake to them all. The next thing was the gate falling to, and a step crunching the crisp snow. Then the house door opened with no preliminary knock; and somebody was throwing off wraps in the hall.
Dolly had made a step or two forward, and stopped; and when Sandie appeared on the threshold, she was standing in the middle of the room, as pretty a picture of shy joy as a man need wish to see in his heart or his house. If Mrs. Eberstein could have been there and watched his greeting of her, the lady's doubts respecting his being "the right man" would perhaps have been solved.
But after the first hasty word or two, it was very silent.
"Dolly," Mr. Shubrick said at last. And there he stopped; nothing followed.
"What were you going to say?" Dolly whispered.
"So much, that I do not know how to begin. I cannot get hold of the end of anything. Are you not going to let me see your eyes? I do not know where I am, till I get a look into them."
He smiled a moment after; for, although shyly and fleetingly, the brown eyes were lifted for a brief glance to his. What a sweet, tender simpleness was in them, and yet what a womanly, thoughtful brow was above them; and, yes, Sandie read somewhat else that a man likes to read; a fealty of love to him that would never fail. It went to his heart. But he saw too that Dolly's colour had left her cheeks, though at first they were rosy enough; and in the lines of her face generally and the quiver of her lip he could see that the nervous tension was somewhat too much. He must lead off to commoner subjects.
"Who is here with you?"
"Nobody."
"You do not mean that you are alone here, Dolly?"
"No. Oh no. I mean, nobody in the house. Aunt Harry and Uncle Ned are at Baxter's. Aunt Harry only left me an hour or two ago, when it was time to expect you."
"It was very kind of her to leave you!" said Sandie frankly.
"We have been here a fortnight. When I found I could not have mother, I wrote to Aunt Hal; and she came."
"What was the matter with your mother?"
Dolly half unwound herself from the arms that held her, and turned her face away. She was trying to choke something down that threatened to stop her speech.
"Father" —
"What of him?" said Sandie with a grave change of tone.
"I am not sorry," said Dolly. "But, oh! to think that I should not be sorry!" She covered her face.
Sandie was silent, waiting and wondering. It could not be Mr. Copley's death that was in question; but what then could it be? He waited, to let Dolly take her own time. Neither did he have to wait long.
"You remember," she began, still with her face turned away, – "you remember what I told you one day in Brierley Park – about father?"
"Certainly I remember."
"You understood me?"
"Yes, I think so."
"Then you knew that I was – very anxious" – Dolly caught her breath – "about what might come? Oh, it is not treason for me to talk to you about it – now!" cried Dolly.
"It is not treason for you to tell me anything," said Mr. Shubrick, drawing her again closer, though Dolly kept her face bent down out of his sight. "Treason and you have nothing in common. What is it?"
"I told you, I knew there was no safety," she said, making a quick motion of her hand over her eyes. "I hoped things would be better over here, away from those people that led him the wrong way; and they were better; it was like old times; still I knew there was no safety. And now – he is taken care of," she said with a tremble of her lip which spoke of strong pain, strongly kept down. "He went to see some new fine machinery in somebody's mill. Somehow, by some carelessness, his coat got caught in the machinery; and before the works could be stopped his leg was – fearfully broken." Dolly spoke with difficulty and making great effort to master her agitation. The arms that held her felt how she was quivering all over.
"When, Dolly? When did this happen?"
"Soon after we came home. It is six weeks ago now."
"How is your father now?"
"Doing very well; getting cured slowly. But he will never walk again without – support. Oh, do you see how I am so sorry and glad together? Isn't it dreadful, that I should be glad?"
She looked up now, for she would not distress Mr. Shubrick by giving way to the tears which would have been a relief to herself. She looked up with such a face! the eyes shining through tears, the mouth trembling with a smile; sunshine and rain all in one glitter. "And that is the way he has been taken care of!" she said.
Mr. Shubrick stooped his face gently to hers with a mute, caressing motion, leaving her time to get rid of those encumbering tears or to shed more of them; waiting till the tremor subsided a little. Soon Dolly spoke again.
"It has been such a weight on me – oh, such a weight! I could hardly bear it sometimes. And now – this is better."
"Yes," he said.
"You had to know of it. I was very sorry!"
"Sorry that I should know?"
"Oh yes, yes! Sorry and ashamed. Sorry for you, too." Dolly's trembling was excessive.
"Hush!" said Sandie softly. "What is yours is mine; sorrow and joy together. I think I had better go and take up my old office of nurse again."
"Oh," said Dolly, starting, and a glad tone coming into her voice, "would you? How he would like that!"
"It must have been a little hard for them both to have you come away just now. I think we will go and comfort them up, Dolly."
"You are very, very good!" said Dolly, with her eyes glistening, and speaking from hearty conviction.
"Whom are you talking to? I have not heard my name yet."
"I have not got accustomed to you yet, you know," Dolly said with a little nervous laugh. "Besides, – I never did."
"Never did what?"
"I never called you anything but – Mr. Shubrick."
"Christina did."
"Poor Christina!" said Dolly.
"Why?" said the other merrily. "She is the rich Mrs. St. Leger; why do you say 'Poor Christina'?"
"I am afraid I have come between her and happiness," Dolly said, blushing frankly.
"You have no occasion to say that," Sandie said, laughing. "She has got what she wanted. There was a terrible danger that she might have come between me and happiness. But for her – I am not at all sure that she would have been happy with me."
"I remember," said Dolly, "she told me one time, she knew she would not 'have her head' so much, if she were once married to you."
"She would not have approved my old house, either," said Sandie contentedly, letting Dolly go that he might put up the fire, which had tumbled down, after the fashion of wood fires.
"She might have liked it," Dolly answered.
"You do?"
"Oh, very much! Aunt Hal and I think it is charming. And it is full of lovely things."
"Wants a new carpet, I should say," said Sandie, eyeing the threadbare one under his feet, which Mrs. Eberstein had objected to.
"There!" said Dolly. "Aunt Hal said you would never know what was on the floor. I told her she was mistaken."
"What gave her such a poor opinion of my eyesight?"
"Oh, nothing, it was not of your eyesight, I don't know, unless she thinks that is the way with men in general. Uncle Ned had brought me a present of a beautiful new carpet for this room, and Aunt Harry wanted me to have it put down; but I wouldn't until I knew whether you would like it."
"Whether I would like it!" Sandie repeated, rather opening his eyes. "I should think the question was, whether you would like it. I like new carpets."
"I did not know but you might have some affection for this old one," said Dolly. "I did not want to change the look of the room before you came, so that it would not seem like home. Aunt Harry said I would spoil you."
"What did you answer to that?"
"I said it was more likely you would spoil me," said Dolly, dimpling up and flushing.
"Do you think I will?" said Sandie, taking her hand and drawing her up to him.
Dolly hesitated, flushed and dimpled more, and answered, however, a frank "No."
"Why?" was the quick next question.
"You ask too many things," said Dolly. "Don't you want something to eat?"
"No, not at all! – Yes."
"I thought so," said Dolly, laughing. "Come, then."
She put her hand in his and led him across the broad hall to the dining-room. And during the next hour Sandie might have recurred with reason to his late remark; that Christina had been near coming between him and happiness. The careless luxury of her way of entertaining him, was in strongest contrast to the sweet, thoughtful, delicate housewifery of his wife. It was a constant pleasure to watch her. Tea-making, in her hands, was a nice art; her fingers were deft to cut bread; and whenever the hands approached him, whether it were to give a cup of tea or to render some other ministry, it was with an indescribable shyness and carefulness at once, which was wholly bewitching. Sandie was hungry, no doubt; but his feast was mental that night, and exquisite.
Meanwhile, he talked. He gave Dolly details of his voyage home, which had been stormy; got from her a full account of the weeks since she had set foot on American ground; and finally informed her that his having a ship was certain, and in the near future.
"Poor Christina!" said Dolly.
"Hush!" said he, laughing and drawing her with him back into the other room; "you shall not say that again. Would you like to go to Washington? The probability is that you will have to go."
"Anywhere," said Dolly.
They stood silently before the fire for a few minutes; then Mr. Shubrick turned to her with a change of tone.
"Why did you think I would not spoil you?"
She was held fast, she could not run away; he was bending down to look in her face, she could not hide it. Dolly's breath came short. There was so much in the tone of his words that stirred her. Besides, the answer – what came at last was —
"Sandie, you know you wouldn't!"
"Reasons?"
"Oh! – reasons."
"Yes. I want to know the reasons, Dolly."
In her desperation Dolly looked up, one good glance of her brown eyes; then she hid her face. I think Sandie was satisfied, for he asked no more.
"Yes," he said presently. "I love you too well, and you love me too well. We will try to help each other up; not down. Dolly, I would not spoil you for the whole world! and I do not believe I could if I tried."
The lady from whom this story comes, remembers having seen Mrs. Shubrick when she was a beautiful old lady. Then and all her life she wore her cable watch-chain.
