Mrs. Jersey could not leave town the next day.  Dolly had to wait.  It was hard waiting.  She half wished she had stayed that day also with her father; yet when she asked herself why? ­she shuddered.  To take care of him? to watch and keep guard over him?  What use, for one day, when she could do it no longer?  Mr. Copley must be left to himself; and a feeling of helplessness stole over her.  From the momentary encouragement and hope, she fell back again to take a more comprehensive view of the subject; she saw that all was not gained yet, and it might be that nothing!  And she could do no more, except pray.  Poor Dolly did that; but the strain of fear, the horror of shame, the grief of hurt affection, began to make her very sore.  She was not getting accustomed to her burden; it was growing more insupportably galling; the only hope for the whole family lay in getting together and remaining together, and in this journey taking Mr. Copley away from his haunts and his tempters.  Yet Dolly reflected with trembling that the temptation, both temptations, would meet them on their way; if a man desired to drink or to play, he would never be at a loss for the opportunity or the companions.  Dolly wrung her hands and prayed again.

However, something was gained; and Dolly on her return reported to her mother that they were to set off for the Continent in a few days.  She brought down money, moreover, to pay off the servants; and with a heart so far lightened, went bravely at the preparations to be made.

“And will your father go with us to Venice?”

“Of course, mother.  We cannot go without him.”

“What if Venice shouldn’t agree with me?”

“Oh, then we’ll go on further.  I think Naples would agree with you. 
There is a very nice house at Sorrento ­nice people ­where Lady
Brierley spent a summer; and Mrs. Jersey has given me the address. 
Perhaps we’ll go there.”

“But if Lady Brierley was there, I guess it’s an expensive place.”

“No, Mrs. Jersey says not.  You must have what you want anyhow, mother dear.”

“I always used,” said poor Mrs. Copley; “but of late I have been obliged to sing another tune.”

“Go back to the old tune, then, dear.  If father hasn’t got the money, I’ll find some way of raising it myself.  I mean you shall go to Sorrento.  Mrs. Jersey says it’s just charming there.”

“I wonder what she knows about it!  A housekeeper!  Queer person to tell you and me where to go.”

“Why, a finger-post can do that, mother.  Mrs. Jersey knows a great deal besides, about a great many things.”

“Well!” Mrs. Copley said again with another sigh ­“it is new times to me altogether.  And I wish the old times would come back!”

“Perhaps they will, mother.  When once we get hold of father again, we must try to charm him into staying with us.”

And it seemed to Dolly that they might do so much.  The spirit of seventeen is not easily kept down; and with the stir of actually getting ready for the journey, she felt her hope and courage moving also.  A change at any rate was before her; and Dolly had a faint, far-off thought of possibly working upon her father to induce him at the close of their Italian journey to take ship for home.

So she bustled about from morning till night; packed what was to go and what was to be left; grew very cheery over her work, and cheered and amused her mother.  September was on its way now; it was time to be off; and Dolly wrote to her father to tell him she was ready.

A few days later, Dolly was in the porch resting and eating a fine pear, which came out of a basket Mrs. Jersey had sent.  It was afternoon, sunny and hazy, the air fragrant from the woods, the silence now and then emphasised by a shot somewhere in the distance.  Dolly was happy and hopeful; the weather was most lovely, the pear was excellent; she was having a pleasant half hour of musing and anticipation.  Somebody came on foot along the road, swung open the small lattice gate, and advanced up the path towards her.

Who was it?  Not Mr. St. Leger, which had been Dolly’s first momentary fear.  No, this was a different creature.  A young man, but how unlike that other.  St. Leger was trim-built, smooth, regular, comely; this young fellow was lank, long-limbed, none of his joints played symmetrically with the others; and the face, though shrewd enough and good-natured, had no remote pretensions to beauty.  His dress had not been cut by the sort of tailor that worked for the St. Legers; his gait, instead of the firm, compact, confident movement which Dolly was accustomed to see, had a swinging stride, which indeed did not lack a kind of confidence; the kind that makes no doubt of getting over the ground, and cares little for obstacles.  As Dolly looked, she thought she had seen him before.  But it was very odd, nevertheless, the sort of well-pleased smile his face wore.  He took off his hat when he got to the foot of the steps, and stood there looking up at Dolly in the porch.

“You don’t recollect me, I guess,” said he.

“No,” said Dolly gravely.

“I am Rupert Babbage.  And that don’t make you much wiser, does it?”

“No,” said Dolly.  “Not at all.”

“Likely.  But Mr. Copley has sent me down.”

“Has he?”

“I recollect you first-rate,” the stranger went on, feeling in his coat pocket for something and producing therefrom a letter.  “Don’t you know the day you came to your father’s office?” And mounting a step or two, without further preface he handed the letter to Dolly.  Dolly saw her father’s handwriting, her own name on the cover, and put a stop to the wonder which was creeping over her, by breaking the seal.  While she read the letter the young man’s eyes read her face.

“DEAR DOLLY, ­

“I can’t get quit of this confounded Babel yet ­and you must want somebody badly.  So I send Rupert down.  He’ll do everything you want, better in fact than I could, for he is young and spry, and as good a boy as lives.  He will see to everything, and you can get off as soon as you like.  I think he had better go along all the way; his mother wit is worth a dozen stupid couriers, even though he don’t know quite so much about routes and hotels; he will soon pick all that up.  Will you want to stay more than a night in town?  For that night my landlady can take you in; and if you let me know when you will be ready I will have your passage taken in the packet.

“Hurried, as always, dear Dolly, with my love to your mother,

“F.  C. COPLEY,

“CONSUL’S OFFICE LONDON,

“Sept. 9, 182-.”

Poor Dolly read this note over and over, having thrown away the remainder of her sweet pear as belonging only to a time of easy pleasure-taking which was past.  Was her father not coming to Brierley then? she must get off without him?  Why?  And “your passage”! why not “our” passage?  Dolly felt the ground giving way under her feet.  No, her father could not be coming to Brierley, or he would not have sent this young fellow.  And all things in the world were hovering in uncertainty; nothing sure even to hope.

The eyes that watched her saw the face change, the fair, bright, young face; saw her colour pale, and the lovely lines of the lips droop for a moment to an expression of great sadness.  The eyelids drooped too, and he was sure there was a glistening under them.

“Did Mr. Copley say why he could not come?” she asked at length, lifting her head.

“He did not.  I am very sorry!” said Rupert involuntarily.  “I guess he could not get his business fixed.  And he said you were in a hurry.”

But not without him! thought Dolly.  What was the whole movement for, if he were to be left out of it?  What should she do?  But she must not let the tears come.  That would do nobody any good, not even herself.  She brushed away the undue moisture, and raised her head.

“Did Mr. Copley tell you who I am?” the young man asked.  “I guess he didn’t forget that.”

“No.  Yes!” said Dolly, unable to help smiling at the question and the simple earnestness of the questioner’s face.  “He told me your name.”

“Left you to find out the rest?” said he.  “Well, what can I do first?  That’s what for I’m come.”

“I don’t think there is anything to do,” said Dolly.

“All ready?”

“Yes.  Pretty much.  All except finishing.”

“Lots o’ baggage?”

“No, not so very much.  We did not bring a great deal down here.”

“Then it’ll go by the coach easy enough.  How will it get to the coach?”

“I don’t know.  We must have a waggon from the village, I suppose, or from some farmhouse.”

“When do you want to go? and I’ll soon fix that.”

Dolly reflected and said, “The day after to-morrow.”

“All right.”

He was setting forth immediately, with a world of energy in his gait.  Dolly called after him.

“To-morrow will be time enough for the waggon, Mr. Babbage.”

“There’ll be something else for to-morrow,” he answered without pausing.

“Tea’ll be ready at six,” said Dolly, raising her voice a little.

“All right!” said he, and sped away.

Dolly looked after him, so full of vexation that she did not know what to do.  Not her father, and in his place this boy!  This boy to go with them on the journey; to be one of the party; to be always on hand; for he could not be relegated to the place of a servant or a courier.  And Dolly wanted her father, and was sure that the expense of a fourth person might have been spared.  The worst fear of all she would not look at; it was possible that they were still to be three, and her father, the fourth, left out.  However, for the present the matter in hand was action; she must tell her mother about this new arrival before she met him at supper.  Dolly went in.

“Your father not coming?” said Mrs. Copley when she had heard Dolly’s report.  “Then we have nothing to wait for, and we can get right off.  I do want to see your father out of that miserable office once!”

“Well, he promised me, mother,” said Dolly, sighing.

“Can we go to-morrow?”

“No, mother; there are too many last things to do.  Next day we will.”

“Why can’t we go and leave this young man to finish up after us?”

“He could not do it, mother; and we must let father know, besides.”

Rupert came back in due time and was presented to Mrs. Copley; but Mrs. Copley did not admire his looks, and the supper-table party was very silent.  The silence became unbearable to the new-comer; and though he was not without a certain shyness in Dolly’s presence, it became at last easier to speak than to go on eating and not speaking.

“Plenty of shootin’ round about here, I s’pose,” he remarked.  “I heard the guns going.”

“The preserves of Brierley are very full of game,” Dolly answered; “and there are some friends of Lord Brierley staying at the house.”

“I engaged a waggon,” Rupert went on.  “It’ll be here at one, sharp.”

“I ought to have sent a word to the post-office, for father, when you went to the village; but I did not think till it was too late.”

“I did that,” said Rupert.

“Sent a word to father?”

“All right.  Told him you’d be up on Wednesday.”

“Oh, thank you.  That was very thoughtful.”

“You’re from America,” said Mrs. Copley.

“Should think I was!”

“Whereabouts? where from, I mean?”

“About two miles from your place ­Ortonville is the spot.  My native.”

“What made you come over here?”

“Well, I s’pose it would be as true as anything to say, Mr. Copley made me come.”

“What for?”

“Well, I guess it was kindness.  Most likely.”

“Kindness!” echoed Mrs. Copley.  “Poor kindness, I call it, to take a man, or a boy, or any one else, away from his natural home.  Haven’t you found it so?  Don’t you wish you were back there again?”

“Well,” said Rupert with a little slowness, and a twinkle in his eye at the same time, ­“I just don’t; if I’m to tell the truth.”

“It is incomprehensible to me!” returned the lady.  “Why, what do you find here, that you would not have had at home?”

“England, for one thing,” said the young man with a smile.

“England!  Of course you would not have had England at home; but isn’t America better?”

“I think it is.”

“Then what do you gain by exchanging one for the other?” said Mrs. Copley with heat.

“That exchange ain’t made yet.  I calculate to go back, when I have got all I want on this side.”

“And what do you want?  Money, I suppose.  Everything is for money, with everybody.  Country, and family, and the ease of life, and the pleasure of being together ­nothing matters, if only one may get money!  I don’t know but savages have the best of it.  At least they don’t live for money.”

Mrs. Copley forgot at the moment that she was wishing her daughter to marry for money.

“I counsel you, young man,” she began again.  “Money won’t buy everything.”

He laughed good-humouredly.  “Can’t buy much without it,” he said, with that shrewd twinkle in his eye.

“And what can Mr. Copley do for you, I should like to know?” she went on impatiently.

“He’s put me in a likely way,” said Rupert.  “I am very much beholden to Mr. Copley.  But the best thing he has done for me is this ­by a long jump.”

“This? What?”

“Letting me go along this journey.  I do not think money is the very best of all things,” the young man said with some spirit.

“Letting you ­ Do you mean that you are going to Venice in our party?”

“If it is Venice you are going to.”

Silence fell.  Mrs. Copley pondered the news in some consternation.  To Dolly it was not news, and she did not mean it should be fact, if she could help it.

“Perhaps you have business in Venice?” Mrs. Copley at length ventured.

“I hope it’ll turn out so,” said Rupert.  “Mr. Copley said I might have the pleasure of taking care of you.  I should enjoy that, I guess, more than making money.”

“Good gracious!” was all the speech Mrs. Copley was capable of.  She sat and looked at the young man.  So, furtively, did Dolly.  He was enjoying his supper; yes, and the prospect too; for a slight flush had risen to his face.  It was not a symmetrical face, but honesty was written in every line of it.

“You’ve got your plans fixed?” Rupert next inquired.  “Know just which way you are going?  Be sure you are right, and then go ahead, you know.”

“We take the boat to Rotterdam,” said Dolly.

“Which way, then?  Mr. Copley told me so much.”

“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Copley.  “If I could once get hold of Mr. Copley we could soon settle it.”

“What points do you want to make?”

“Points?  I don’t want to make any points.  I don’t know what you mean.”

“I mean, where do you want to go in special, between here and Venice? or are there no places you care about?”

“Places?  Oh! ­Well, yes, there are.  I should like to see the place where the battle of Waterloo was fought.”

“Mother, that would be out of our way,” said Dolly.

“Which is our way?” said Mrs. Copley.  “I thought we had not fixed it.”

“You don’t go up the Rhine, then?” said Rupert.

“I’m going nowhere by boat except where I can’t help myself.  I like to feel land under me.  No, we are not going up the Rhine.  I can see mountains enough in America, and rivers enough too.”

Rupert had finished his supper, and took up an atlas he saw lying near.

“Rotterdam,” he said, opening at the map of Central Europe, ­“that is our one fixed point, that and Venice.  Now, how to get from the one to the other.”

Mrs. Copley changed her seat to come nearer the map; and an animated discussion followed, which kept her interested and happy the whole of the evening.  Dolly saw it and was thankful.  It was more satisfactory than the former consultation with St. Leger, who treated the subject from quite too high and lordly a point of view; referring to the best hotels and assuming the easiest ways of doing things; flinging money about him, in imagination, as Mrs. Copley said, as if it were coming out of a purse with no bottom to it; which to be sure might be very true so far as he was concerned, but much discomposed the poor woman who knew that on her part such pleasant freehandedness was not to be thought of.  Rupert Babbage evidently did not think of it.  He considered economy.  Besides, he was not so distractingly au fait in everything; Mrs. Copley could bear a part in the conversation.  So she and Rupert meandered over the map, talked endlessly, took a vast deal of pleasure in the exercise, and grew quite accustomed to each other; while Dolly sat by, glad and yet chafing.  Rupert certainly was a comfort, for the hour; but she wished he had never been thought of, nevertheless.

But he was a comfort next day again.  Cheery and busy and efficient, he managed people, sent the luggage off, helped and waited upon Mrs. Copley, and kept her quiet with his talk, up to the time when the third day they took their places in the coach.

“Really, Mr. Babbage, you are a very handy young man!” Mrs. Copley once had uttered her admiration; and Rupert laughed.

“I shouldn’t think much of myself,” he said, “if I couldn’t do as much as that.  You see, I consider that I’m promoted.”

Dolly made the journey up to town in a state between relief and disgust.  Rupert did take a world of trouble off her hands; but she said to herself that she did not want it taken off.  And she certainly did not want this long-legged fellow attending upon them everywhere.  It was better to have him than St. Leger; that was all you could say.

The days in London were few and busy.  Mr. Copley during this interval was very affectionate, very kind and attentive; in fact, so attentive to supplying or providing against every possible want that he found little time to be with his family.  He and Rupert were perpetually flying out and in, ordering this and searching for that; a sort of joyous bustle seemed to be the order of the day; for he carried it on gleefully.

“Why, Mr. Copley,” his wife said, when he brought her an elegant little leather case for holding the tinctures and medicines in which she indulged, “I thought we must economise so hard?  I thought you had no money now-a-days?  How is this, and what does it mean? this case must have cost a pound.”

“You are worth more than a pound, my dear,” Mr. Copley said with a sort of semi-earnestness.

“But I thought you were so poor all of a sudden?”

“We are going to turn a new leaf, and live frugally; so you see, on the strength of that, we can afford to be extravagant now and then.”

“That seems to me a very doubtful way, Mr. Copley,” said his wife, shaking her head.

“Don’t be doubtful, my dear.  Whatever else you do, go straight to your mark, and don’t be doubtful.  Humming and hawing never get on with anything.  Care killed a cat, my dear.”

“It has almost killed me,” said poor Mrs. Copley.  “Are we out of need of care, Frank?”

“You are.  I’ll take all the care for the family.  My dear, we are going in for play, and Venice.”

Dolly heard this, and felt a good deal cheered.  What was her consternation, then, when the day of sailing came, and at the last minute, on board the packet, her father declared he must wait; he could not leave London yet for a week or two, but he could not let them be delayed; he would let St. Leger go to look after them, and he would catch them up before they got to Venice.  All this was said in a breath, in a rush and hurry, at the moment of taking leave; the luggage was on board, Rupert was looking after it, Mr. St. Leger’s elegant figure was just stepping across the gangway; and Mr. Copley kissed and shook hands and was off, with a word to Lawrence as he passed, before Mrs. Copley or Dolly could throw in more than an exclamation of dismay to stop him.  Stop him! one might as well stop a gust of wind.  Dolly saw he had planned it all; reckoned the minutes, got them off on purpose without himself, and with Mr. St. Leger.  And here was Mr. St. Leger to be spoken to; coming up with his assured step and his handsome, indolent blue eyes, to address her mother.  St. Leger was a nice fellow; he was neither a fool nor a coxcomb; but the sight of him was very disagreeable to Dolly just then.  She turned away, as full of vexation as she could hold, and went to Rupert’s side, who was looking after the luggage.

“Do you want to see your berth right away?” he asked her.

“My berth?” said Dolly.

“Well, yes; your cabin ­state-room ­whatever you call it ­where you are to sleep.  You know which it is; do you know where it is?  I always like to get such things straightened out, first thing.  Would you like to see it?”

“Oh yes, please,” said Dolly; and grasping one of the hand-bags she turned away gladly from the deck.  Anything for a little respite and solitude, from Mr. St. Leger.  Rupert found the place, stowed bags and wraps and rugs conveniently away, and made Dolly as much at home as she could be at five minutes’ notice.

“How long will the passage take?” she asked.

“Well, if I knew what the weather would be, I would tell you.  Shall you be sick?”

“I don’t know,” said Dolly.  “I believe I wish I may.  Mr. Babbage, are you a Christian?”

“Well, I ain’t a heathen, anyhow,” said he, laughing a little.

“No, but that isn’t what I mean.  Of course you are not a heathen.  But I mean ­do you serve the Lord Jesus, and do you love Him?”

Dolly had it not in mind to make a confidant of her new squire; but in the terrible confusion and trouble of her spirits she grasped at any possible help or stay.  The excitement of the minute lifted her quite out of ordinary considerations; if Rupert was a Christian, he might be a stand-by to her, and anyhow would understand her.  So she asked.  But he looked at her and shook his head.  The thought crossed him that he was her servant, and her service was all that he was distinctly pledged to in his own mind.  He shook his head.

“Then what do you do when you are in trouble?” she asked.

“Never been there,” said Rupert.  “Always find some way out, when I get into a fix.  Why, are you in trouble?” he asked sympathetically.

“Oh,” cried Dolly, “I am in trouble to death, because father hasn’t come with us!” She could bear it no longer; even seventeen years old gives out sometimes; she burst into tears and sat down on a box and sobbed.  All her hopes dashed to pieces; all her prospects dark and confused; nothing but disappointment and perplexity before her.  What should she do with her mother, she alone?  What should she do with Mr. St. Leger? a still more vexatious question.  And what would become of her father, left to himself, and at what possible time in the future might she hope that he would break away from his ties and temptations and come to rejoin his family?  Dolly sobbed in sorrow and bitterness of heart.  Rupert Babbage stood and looked on wofully; and then delicately went out and closed the door.

Dolly’s tears did her good.  I think it was a help to her too, to know that she had so efficient and faithful a servant in the despised Rupert Babbage.  At any rate, after a half hour or so, she made her appearance on deck and met Mr. St. Leger with a calm apparent unconcern, which showed her again equal to the occasion.  Circumstances were making a woman of Dolly fast.

Mr. St. Leger’s talk had in the meantime quieted Mrs. Copley.  He assured her that her husband would soon come after and catch up with them.  Now he turned his attention to Dolly and Rupert.

“Who is that fellow?” he asked Dolly, when Rupert had left them for a minute.

“He is a young man in my father’s office.  Did you never see him there?”

“But what is he doing here? We do not want him, it strikes me.”

“He is very useful, and able.”

“Well ­aw ­but cannot he keep his good qualities to their proper sphere?  He is not an addition of much value to our society.”

“Take care, Mr. St. Leger!  He is an American; he cannot be set down with the servants.”

“Why not, if his education and habits make that his place?”

“Oh, but they do not.”

“It seems to me they do, if you will pardon me.  This fellow has never been in any gentleman’s society, except your father’s.”

“He will be a gentleman himself, in all essentials, one day, Mr. St. Leger.  There is the difference.  The capability is in him, and the ambition, and the independent and generous feeling.  The foundations are all there.”

“I’ll confess the house when I see it.”

“Ay, but you must in the meantime do nothing to hinder its building.”

“Why must not I?” said Lawrence, laughing.  “It is not my part to lay hold on a trowel and be a social mason.  Still less is it yours.”

“Oh, there you are wrong.  I think it is everybody’s part.”

“Do you?  But fancy, what a dreadful thing life would be in that way.  Perpetual rubbish and confusion.  And pardon me ­can you pardon me? ­that is my idea of America.”

“I do not think it is a just one,” said Dolly, as Rupert now drew near again.

“Is there not perpetual building going on there, of this kind as well as of the more usual?”

“Perhaps.  I was very young when I left home.  But what then?”

“Nothing.  I have a preference for order and quiet, and things in their places.”

“At that rate, you know,” said Dolly, “nothing would ever have been built anywhere.  I grant you, the order and quiet are pleasant when your own house is all that you desire.  But don’t you want to see your neighbour’s house come up?”

“No,” said Lawrence, laughing.  “I have a better prospect from my windows if he remains as he is.”