The End of a Coil
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The worst thing about Mr. Shubrick's coming was, that he must go away again! However, not yet; he would be seen at breakfast first; and to prepare breakfast was now Dolly's next care. Then she got her mother up and persuaded her to make herself nice and appear at the meal.
"You are never going to bring him down into the kitchen?" said Mrs. Copley, horrified, when she got there.
"Certainly, mother; it is no use trying to make a fuss. I cannot give him breakfast anywhere else."
"Then I would let him go to the village, Dolly, and get his breakfast there."
"But that would be very inhospitable. He was here at supper, mother; I don't think he was frightened. He knows just how we are situated."
"He doesn't know you have nobody to help you, I hope?"
"How could he help knowing it? The thing is patent. Never mind, mother; the breakfast will be good, if the breakfast-room is only so so. If you do not mind, nobody else will."
"That you should come to this!" said Mrs. Copley, sinking into a chair. "My Dolly! Doing a servant's work, and for strangers, and nobody to help or care! And what are we coming to? I don't see, for my part. You are ruined."
"Not yet," said Dolly cheerfully. "If I am, I do not feel like it. Now, mother, see if you can get Mr. Shubrick down here before my omelette is ruined; for that is the greatest danger just at present."
It was not quite easy to get Mr. Shubrick down there, however; he demurred very seriously; and I am afraid the omelette was something the worse before he came. But then the breakfast was rather gay. The watcher reported a quiet night, and as he was much inclined to think, an amended patient.
"Quiet!" echoed Mrs. Copley. "How could you keep him quiet?"
"I suppose I imagined myself on board ship," said the young man, smiling, "and gave orders, as I am accustomed to do there. Habit is a great thing."
"And Mr. Copley minded your orders?"
"That is understood."
"Well!" ejaculated Mrs. Copley. "He never would do the least thing I or Dolly wanted him to do; not the least thing. He has been giving the orders all along; and as fidgetty as ever he could be. Fidgetty and nervous. Wasn't he fidgetty?"
"No; very docile and peaceable."
"You must be a wonderful man," said Mrs. Copley.
"Habit," said Mr. Shubrick. "As I said, it is a great thing."
"He has been having his own way all along," said Mrs. Copley; "and ordering us about, and doing just the things he ought not to do. He was always that way."
"Not the proper way for a sick room," said Mr. Shubrick. "You had better install me as head nurse."
How Dolly wished they could do that! As she saw him there at the table, with his quiet air of efficiency and strength, Dolly thought what a treasure he was in a sick house; how strong she felt while she knew he was near. Perhaps Mrs. Copley's thoughts took the same turn; she sighed a little as she spoke.
"You have been very kind, Mr. Shubrick. We shall never forget it. You have been a great help. If Mr. Copley would only get better now" —
"I am going to see him better before I go."
"We could not ask any more help of you."
"You need not," and Mr. Shubrick smiled. "Mr. Copley has done me the honour to ask me."
"Mr. Copley has asked you!" repeated Mrs. Copley in bewilderment. "What?"
"Asked me to stay."
"To stay and nurse him?"
"Yes. And I said I would. You cannot turn me away after that."
"But you have your own business in England," Dolly here put in.
"This is it, I think."
"Your own pleasure, then. You did not come to England for this."
"It seems I did," he said. "I am off duty, Miss Dolly, I told you; here on furlough, to do what I like; and there is nothing else at present that I should like half so well."
Dolly scored another private mark here to the account of Mr. Shubrick's goodness; and in the ease which suddenly came to her own mind, felt as if her head were growing light and giddy. But it was no illusion or dream. Mr. Shubrick was really there, finishing his breakfast, and really going to stay and take care of her father; and Dolly felt as if the tide of their affairs had turned.
So indeed it proved. From that time Mr. Shubrick assumed the charge of the sick-room, by night and also by day. He went for a walk to the village sometimes, and always got his dinner there; the rest of the time he was at the cottage, attending to everything that concerned Mr. Copley. Dolly and her mother were quite put away from that care. And whether it were the moral force of character, which acted upon Mr. Copley, or whether it were that his disorder had really run its length and that a returning tide of health was coming back to its channels, the sick man certainly was better. He grew better from day to day. He had been quiet and manageable from the first in his new nurse's hands; now he began to take pleasure in his society, holding long talks with him on all possible subjects. Appetite mended also, and strength was gradually replacing weakness, which had been very great. Anxiety on the one score of her father's recovery was taken away from Dolly.
Other anxieties remained, and even pressed harder, when the more immediately engrossing care was removed. In spite of Mr. Shubrick's lecture about casting off care, Dolly found it difficult to act upon the truth she knew. Her little fund of money was much reduced; she could not help asking herself how they were going to live? Would her father, as soon as he was strong enough, go back to his former ways and be taken up with his old companions? and if he did, how much longer could the little household at Brierley struggle on alone? What had become of all her father's property in America, from which in old time the income had always been more than sufficient for all their wants and desires? Was it gone irrevocably? or had only the ready money accruing from it been swallowed up in speculation or pleasure? And whence could Dolly get light on these points, or how know what steps she ought to take? Could her weakness do anything, in view of that fact to which her mother had alluded, that Mr. Copley always took his own way? It was all utter and dark confusion as she looked forward. Could Dolly trust and be quiet?
In her meditations another subject occupied her a good deal. The presence of Sandie Shubrick was such a comfort that it was impossible not to think what she would do without him when he was gone. He was a universal comfort. Since he had taken charge of the sick-room, the sickness was disappearing; while he was in command, there was no rebellion; the affairs of the household worked smoothly, and Dolly had no need to draw a single long breath of perplexity or anxiety. The sound of that even, firm step on the gravel walk or in the hall, was a token of security; the sight of Mr. Shubrick's upright, alert figure anywhere was good for courage and hope. His resolute, calm face was a light in the house. Dolly's thoughts were much busied with him and with involuntary speculations about him and Christina. It was almost unavoidable. She thought, as indeed she had thought before, that Miss Thayer was a happy woman, to have so much strength and goodness belonging to her. What a shielded life hers would be, by this man's side. He would never neglect her or prefer his interests to hers; he would never give her cause to be ashamed of him; and here Dolly's lips sometimes quivered and a hot tear or two forced their way out from under her eyelids. And how could possibly Christina so play fast and loose with him, do dishonour to so much goodness, and put off her consent to his wishes until all grace was gone out of it? Mr. Shubrick apparently had made up his mind to this treatment and was not cast down by it; or perhaps would he, so self-reliant as he was, be cast down utterly by anything?
I think perhaps Dolly thought too much about Mr. Shubrick. It was difficult to help it. He had brought such a change into her life; he was doing such a work in the house; he was so very pleasant a companion at those breakfasts and suppers in the kitchen. For his dinner Mr. Shubrick persisted in going to the village inn. He said the walk did him good. He had become in these few days quite as one of themselves. And now he would go. Mr. Copley was fast getting well, and his nurse would go. Dolly could not bear to think of it.
CHAPTER XXXIII
UNDER AN OAK TREE
More than a week passed, and Mr. Copley was steadily convalescent. He had not left his room yet, but he needed no longer the steady attendance of some one bound to minister to his wants. Dolly was expecting now every day to hear Mr. Shubrick say he must bid them good-bye; and she took herself a little to task for caring so much about it. What was Sandie Shubrick to her, that she should feel such a heart-sinking at the prospect of his departure? It was a very wonderful thing that he, Christina Thayer's Mr. Shubrick, should have come to help this little family in its need; it was very astonishing that he should be there even then, waiting on Dolly Copley's sick father; let her be satisfied with this so unexpected good, and bid him farewell as easily as she had bid him welcome. But Dolly could not. How could she? she said to herself. And every time she saw Mr. Shubrick she feared lest the dreaded words would fall from his lips. So when he came to her one afternoon when she was sitting in the porch, her heart gave a throb of anticipation. However, he said nothing of going, but remarked how pretty the sloping ground looked, on the other side of the little river, with its giant trees and the sunlight streaming through the branches upon the greensward.
"It is very pretty," said Dolly. "The park is beautiful. You ought to see it" —before you go, she was on the point of saying, but did not say.
"Will you come with me, and show me what I ought to look at?"
"Now?" said Dolly.
"If it is not too warm for you. We might take it easily and keep in the shadow of the trees."
"Oh, it is not too warm," said Dolly; and she ran to fetch her garden hat.
It was not August now; the summer was past, yet the weather was fit for the height of summer. Warm, spicy, dry air, showing misty in the distance like a gossamer veil, and near by a still glow over everything. The two young people wandered over the bridge and slowly mounted the bank among the oaks and beeches, keeping in the shade as much as might be. There was a glorious play of shadow and sunlight all over the woodland; and the two went softly along, hardly disturbing the wild creatures that looked at them now and then. For the woods were full of life. They saw a hare cross an opening, and grey squirrels eyed them from the great oak branches overhead; and there was a soft hum of insects filling all the silence. It was not the time of day for the birds to be merry. Nor perhaps for the human creatures who slowly passed from tree to tree, avoiding the spaces of sunlight and summer glow. They were neither merry nor talked much.
"This is very noble," said Sandie at last.
"Were you ever in England before, Mr. Shubrick?"
"Yes."
"Then you have seen many of these fine places already, perhaps?"
"No, not many. My stay has been mostly in London; though I did run down a little into the country."
"People say we have nothing like this in America."
"True, I suppose," said Sandie. "We are too young a people, and we have had something else to do."
"It is like a dream, that anybody should have such a house and such a place as Brierley," Dolly went on. "There is nothing wanting that one can imagine, for beauty and dignity and delight of living and luxury of ease. It might be the Arabian Nights, or fairyland. You must see the house, with its lovely old carvings, and pictures, and old, old furniture; and the arms of the family that built it carved and painted everywhere, on doors and chairs and mantelpieces."
"Of the family that built it?" repeated Mr. Shubrick. "Not the family that owns it now?"
"No. You see their arms too, but the others are the oldest. And then it would take you hours to go through the gardens. There are different gardens; one, most exquisite, framed in with trees, and a fountain in the middle, and all the beds filled with rare plants. But I do not like anything about the place better than these trees and greensward."
"It must be a difficult thing," said Sandie meditatively, "to use it all for Christ."
Dolly was silent a while. "I don't see how it could be used so," she said.
The other made no answer. They went slowly on and on, getting up to the higher ground and more level going, while the sun's rays coming a little more slant as the afternoon declined, gave an increasing picturesqueness to the scene. Mr. Shubrick had been for some time almost entirely silent, when Dolly proposed to stop and rest.
"One enjoys it better so," she said. "One has better leisure to look. And I wanted to talk to you, besides."
Her companion was very willing, and they took their places under a great oak, on the swell of greensward at the foot of it. Ground and grass and moss were all dry. Dolly sat down and laid off her hat; however, the proposed "talk" did not seem to be ready, and she let Mr. Shubrick wait.
"I wanted to ask you something," said she at last. "I have been wanting to ask you something for a good while."
There she stopped. She was not looking at him; she was taking care not to look at him; she was trying to regard Mr. Shubrick as a foreign abstraction. Seeing which, he began to look at her more persistently than hitherto.
"What is it?" he asked, with not a little curiosity.
"There is nobody else I can ask," Dolly went on; "and if you could give me the help I want, it would be a great thing for me."
"I will if I can."
The young man's eyes did not turn away now. And Dolly was an excessively pretty thing to look at; so taken up with her own thoughts that she was in no danger of finding out that she was an object of attention or perhaps admiration. Her companion perceived this, and indulged his eyes fearlessly. Dolly's fair, flushed face was thin with the work and the care of many weeks past; the traces of that were plain enough; yet it was delicately fair all the same, and perhaps more than ever, with the heightened spirituality of the expression. The writing on her features, of love and purity, habitual self-devotion and self-forgetfulness, patience and sweetness, was so plain and so unconscious, that it made her a very rare subject of contemplation, and, as her companion thought, extremely lovely. Her attitude spoke the same unconsciousness; her dress was of the simplest description; her brown hair was tossed into disorder; but dress and hair and attitude alike were deliciously graceful, with that mingling of characteristics of child and woman which was peculiar to Dolly. Lieutenant Shubrick was familiar with a very diverse type of womanly charms in the shape of his long-betrothed Miss Thayer. The comparison, or contrast, might be interesting; at any rate, any one who had eyes to read this type before him needed no contrast to make it delightful; and probably Mr. Shubrick had such eyes. He was quite silent, leaving Dolly to choose her time and her words at her own pleasure.
"I know you will," she said slowly, taking up his last words; – "you have already; but I am a bad learner. You know what you said, Mr. Shubrick, the day you came, that evening when we were at supper, – about trusting, and not taking care?"
"Yes."
Dolly did not look at him, and went on. "I do not find that I can do it."
"Do what?"
"Lay down care. Quite lay it down."
"It is not easy," Mr. Shubrick admitted.
"Is it possible, always? I find I can trust pretty well when I can see at least a possible way out of difficulties; but when the way seems all shut up, and no opening anywhere, – then – I do not quite lay down care. How can I?"
"There is only one thing that can make it possible."
"I know – you told me; but how then can I get that? I must be very far from the knowledge of Christ – if that is what is wanting."
Dolly's eyes filled with tears.
"No," said Mr. Shubrick gently, "but perhaps it does follow, that you have not enough of that knowledge."
"Of course. And how shall I get it? I can trust when I see some light, but when I can see none, I am afraid."
"If I promised to take you home, I mean, to America, by ways known to me but unknown to you, could you trust me and take the steps I bade you."
I am not justifying Mr. Shubrick. This was a kind of tentative speech for his own satisfaction; but he made it, watching for Dolly's answer the while. It came without hesitation.
"Yes," she said. "I should believe you, if you told me so."
"Yet in that case you would follow me blindly."
"Yes."
"Seeing no light."
"Yes. But then I know you enough to know that you would not promise what you would not do."
"Thank you. This is by way of illustration. You would not be afraid?"
"Not a bit. I see what you mean," said Dolly, colouring a little.
"Do you think there is anything friends can give one another, so precious as such trust?"
"No – I suppose not."
"Is it wonderful, if the Lord wants it of His children?"
"No. O Mr. Shubrick, I am ashamed of myself! What is the reason that I can give it to you, for instance, and not to Him? Is it just wickedness?"
"It is rather, distance."
"Distance! Then how shall I get near?"
"Do you know what a question you are asking me? One of the grandest that a creature can ask. It is the question of questions. For, to get near, is to see the Lord's beauty; and to see Him is to love Him, and to love with that absolute confidence. 'Thou wilt keep Him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on Thee.' And, 'This is life eternal, to know thee.'"
"Then how, Mr. Shubrick?" said Dolly. "How is one to do?" She was almost tearful in her earnestness. But he spoke, earnestly enough, yet with a smile.
"There are two sides to the question. On your side, you must do what you would do in any case where you wanted to cultivate a friendship. How would that be?"
Dolly pondered. "I never put it so to myself," she said slowly, "and yet I suppose it must be so. Why, in any such case I should try to see a great deal of the person I wanted to make a friend of. I would be in the person's company, hear him talk, or hear her talk, if it was a woman; and talk to her. It would be the only way we could become known to each other."
"Translate, now."
"Translate?" said Dolly. "You mean," —
"Apply to the case in hand."
"You mean," said Dolly, "that to study the Bible is to hear the Lord speak; and to pray, is to speak to Him."
"To study the Bible with a heart ready to obey all it finds —that is hearing the Lord speak; and if prayer is telling Him your thoughts and wishes in your own language, that is speaking to Him."
"But it is speaking without an answer."
"I beg your pardon. It is speaking without an audible answer; that is all."
"Then how does the answer come?"
"In receiving what you ask for; in finding what you seek."
Dolly brushed away a tear again.
"One needs to take a good deal of time for all that," she said presently.
"Can you cultivate a friendship on any other terms?"
"Perhaps not. This is quite a new view of the whole matter, Mr. Shubrick. To me."
"Common sense. And Bible."
"Does the Bible speak of it?"
"The Bible speaks of the life of religion as contained in our knowing God and in His knowing us."
"But He, – He knows everybody."
"Not in this way. It is the sweet knowledge of intimate friendship and relations of affection. 'I know thee by name,' was one of the reasons given why the Lord would grant Moses' bold prayer. 'I have called thee by thy name, thou art Mine,' is the word to His people Israel. 'He calleth His own sheep by name,' you know it is said of the Good Shepherd. And 'they shall all know Me,' is the promise concerning the Church in Christ. While, you remember, the sentence of dismissal to the others will be simply, 'I know you not.' And, 'the Lord knoweth them that are His.'"
There was silence; and then Dolly said, "You said there were two sides to the question."
"Yes. Your part we have talked about; it is to study, and ask, and obey, and believe. The Lord's part is to reveal Himself to you. It is a matter of revelation. You cannot attain it by any efforts of your own, be they never so determinate. Therefore your prayer must be constantly like that of Moses – 'I beseech thee, show me Thy glory.' And you see, that makes your part easy, because the other part is sure."
"Mr. Shubrick, you are a very comforting talker!" said Dolly.
"Nay, I am only repeating the Lord's words of comfort."
"So I am to study, and yet study will not do it," said Dolly; "and I am to pray, and yet prayer will not give it."
"Study will not do it, certainly. But when the Lord bestows His light, study becomes illumination. No, prayer does not give it, either; yet you must ask if yon would have. And Christ's promise to one who loves Him and keeps His commandments is, – you recollect it, – 'I will love him and will manifest Myself to him.'"
"That will do, Mr. Shubrick, thank you," said Dolly rising. "You need not say any more. I think I understand. And I am very much obliged to you."
Mr. Shubrick made no answer. They went saunteringly along under the great trees, rather silent both of them after that. As the sun got lower the beauty of the wooded park ground grew more exceeding. All that a most noble growth of trees could show, scattered and grouped, all that a most lovely undulation of ground surface could give, in slope and vista and broken light and shadow, was gilded here and there with vivid gold, or filled elsewhere with a sunny, misty glow of vapourous rays, as if the air were streaming with gold dust among the trees. All tints and hues of greensward, moss, and fern, under all conditions of illumination, met their wondering eyes; and for a while there was little spoken but exclamations of delight and discussion of beautiful effects that came under review. They went on so, from point to point, by much the same way that Dolly had taken on her first visit to the park; till they came out as she had done from the thinner part of the woodland, and stood at the edge of the wide plain of open greensward which stretched on up to the House. Here they stood still. The low sun was shining over it all; the great groups of oaks and elms stood in full revealed beauty and majesty; and in the distance the House looked superbly down over the whole.
"There is hardly anything about Brierley that I like better than this," said Dolly. "Isn't it lovely? I always delight in this great slope of wavy green ground; and see how it is emphasised and set off by those magnificent trees? And the House looks better from nowhere than from here."
"It is very noble – it is exceeding beautiful," Mr. Shubrick assented.
"Now this, I suppose, one could not see in America," Dolly went on; "nor anything like it."
"America has its own beauties; doubtless nothing like this. There is the dignity of many generations here. But, Miss Dolly, as I said before, – it would be difficult to use all this for Christ."
"I do not see how it could be done," said Dolly. "Mr. Shubrick, I happen to know, it takes seven or eight thousand a year – or more – to keep the place up. Pounds sterling, I mean; not dollars. Merely to keep the establishment up and in order."
"And yet, if I were its owner, I should find it hard to give up these ancestral acres and trees, or to cease to take care of them. I am glad I am a poor man!"
"Give them up?" said Dolly. "Do you think that would be duty?"
"I do not know. How could I take seven or eight thousand pounds a year just to keep up all this magnificence, when the money is so wanted for the Lord's work, in so many ways? When it would do such great things, given to Him."
"Then, Mr. Shubrick, the world must be very much mistaken in its calculations. People would not even understand you, if they heard you say that."
"Do you understand me?"
"Oh yes. And yet I cannot tell you what delight I take in all this, every time I see it. The feeling of satisfaction seems to go to my very heart. And so when I am in the house, – and the gardens. Oh, you have not seen the gardens, nor the House either; and there is no time to-day. But I do not know that I enjoy anything much more than this view. Though the House is delicious, Mr. Shubrick."