They went to Rome.

Dolly had little comfort from her conversation with her father.  She turned over in her mind his offer to quit wine if St. Leger would do the same.  St. Leger would not give any such pledge, Dolly was very clearly aware; except, indeed, she paid him for it with another pledge on her part.  With such a bribe she believed he would do it, or anything else that might be asked of him.  Smooth and quiet as the young gentleman was outwardly, he had a power of self-will; as was shown by his persistence in following her.  Dolly was obliged to confess that his passion was true and strong.  If she would have him, no doubt, at least she believed there was no doubt, Lawrence would agree to be unfashionable and drink no more wine to the day of his death for her sake.  If he agreed to that, her father would agree to it; both of them would be saved from that danger.  Dolly pondered.  Ought she to pay the price?  Should she sacrifice herself, and be the wife of a rich banker, and therewith keep her father and all of them from ruin?  Very soberly Dolly turned the whole thing over in her mind; back and forward; and always she was certain on one point, ­that she did not want to be Lawrence’s wife; and to her simple, childlike perceptions another thing also seemed clear; that it is a bad way to escape one wrong by doing another.  She always brought up with that.  And so, she could not venture and did not venture to attack Lawrence on the wine question.  She knew it would be in vain.

Meanwhile, they were in Rome.  Two of the gentlemen being skilled travellers, they had presently secured a very tolerable apartment; not in the best situation, indeed, but so neither was it of the most expensive sort; and clubbing their resources, were arranged comfortably enough to feel quite at home.  And immediately Dolly began to use her advantage and see Rome.  Mrs. Copley had no curiosity to see anything; all her wish was to sit at her window or by her fire and talk to her husband; and as Mr. Copley shared her lack of enterprise and something withheld him from seeking either gambling or drinking-shops, Dolly could go out with an easy mind, and give herself undividedly to the intense enjoyment of the place and the time.  Yes, undividedly; for she was eighteen, and at eighteen one has a power of, for a time, throwing off trouble.  Trouble was on her, she knew; and, nevertheless, when Dolly found herself in the streets of Rome, or in presence of its wonders of art or marvels of antiquity, she and trouble parted company.  She forgot all but the present; or even if she did not forget, she disregarded.  Her spirit took a momentary leap above all that ordinarily held it down, and revelled, and rejoiced, and expanded, and rose into a region of pure exquisite life.  Rupert, who always accompanied her, was rather opening the eyes of his mind, and opening them very wide indeed, and as is the case with eyes newly opened, not seeing very clearly; yet taking great pleasure in what he did see.  St. Leger, her other companion, had a certain delight in seeing Dolly’s enjoyment; for himself, alas! it was too plain that art said little to him, and antiquity nothing.

One afternoon, when they had been perhaps a week in Rome, Dolly declared her intention of taking Rupert to the Museo Capitolino.

“You were there the day before yesterday,” St. Leger remarked, rousing himself from a comfortable position and a magazine.

“Yes, thank you; and now I am going to do for Mr. Babbage what you did for me; introduce him to a scene of delights.  You know, one should always pass on a good thing that one has received.”

“Don’t you want me?”

“No, indeed!  I wouldn’t bore you to that extent.”

“But you will allow me, for my own pleasure,” said Lawrence, getting up.

“No, I will not.  You have done your part, as far as that museum is concerned; and besides, I have heard that a lady must not dance too many dances with one gentleman.  It is Mr. Babbage’s turn.”

And with a merry little nod of her head, and smile at the irresolute St. Leger, Dolly went off.  Rupert was generally of the party when they went sight-seeing, but it had happened that it was not the case when the visit to the Capitoline Museum had been made.

“You are not going to this place for my sake?” Rupert said as Dolly hurried along.

“For your sake, and for my sake,” she answered.  “I was there for about two minutes, and I should like two days.  O Rome, Rome!  I never saw anything like Rome.”

“Why?” said Rupert.  “It hasn’t got hold of me so.”

“Wait, and it will.  I seem to be touching the history of the world here, till I don’t know whereabouts in the ages I am.  Is this the nineteenth century? ­Here we are.”

Half an hour later, the two found themselves in the Hall of the Emperors.

“Do you know Roman history, Rupert?”

“A little.  Not much.  Not far down, you see.  I know about Romulus and Remus.”

“Then you know more than anybody else knows.  That’s a myth.  Look here.  Let us begin at the beginning.  Do you know this personage?”

“Julius Cæsar?  Yes.  I have read about him.”

“Did you ever read Plutarch’s Lives?  They used to be my delight when I was a little girl.  I was very fond of Julius Cæsar then.  I know better now.  But I am glad to see him.”

“Why, wasn’t he a great man?”

“Very.  So the world says.  I have come to perceive, Rupert, that that don’t mean much.”

“Why not?  I thought the world was apt to be right.”

“In some things.  No doubt this man might have been a very great man; he had power; but what good did he do to the world?  He just worked for himself.  I tell you what the Bible says, Rupert; ’The things which are highly esteemed among men, are abomination in the sight of God.’  Look, and you will see it is so.”

“If you go by that ­ Who is this next man?  Augustus.  He was the first Roman emperor, wasn’t he?”

“And all around here are ranged his successors.  What a set they were! and they look like it.”

“How do you know they are likenesses?”

“Know from coins.  Do you know, almost all these men, the emperors, died a violent death?  Murdered, or else they killed themselves.  That speaks, don’t it, for the beauty and beneficence of their reigns, and the loveliness of their characters?”

“I don’t know them very well.  Some of them were good men, weren’t they?”

“See here, Nos. 11 and 12.  Here are Caligula and Claudius.  Caligula was murdered.  Then Claudius was poisoned by his wife Agrippina; there she is, N.  She was killed by her son Nero; and Nero killed himself; and N, there is another wife of Claudius whom he killed before he married Agrippina; and here, N, was a wife of Nero whom he killed by a kick.  And that is the way, my dear Rupert, they went on.  Don’t you wish you had belonged to the Imperial family?  There’s greatness for you!”

“But there were some really great ones, weren’t there?  Which are they?”

“Well, let us see.  Come on.  Here is Trajan.  He was not a brute; he was a philosopher and a sceptic.  He was quite a distinguished man in the arts of war and peace.  But he ordered that the profession of Christianity should be punished with death.  He legalised all succeeding persécutions, by his calm enactments.  Do you think he was a great man in the sight of God?”

“Were the Christians persecuted in his reign?”

“Certainly.  In Asia Minor, under the good governor Pliny.  Simon the son of Cleophas was crucified at that time.”

“Perhaps Trajan did not know any better.”

“He might have known better, though.  Ignorance is no plea that will stand, when people have the means of knowledge.  But come on.  Here is Marcus Aurelius; here, Rupert, Nos. 37 and 38.  He was what the world calls a very great man.  He was cultivated, and wise, and strong, a great governor, and for a heathen a good man; and how he treated the Christians!  East and west, and at Rome here itself, how they were sought out and tortured and killed!  What do you think the Lord thinks of such a great man as that?  Remember the Bible says of His people, ’He that toucheth you, toucheth the apple of His eye.’  What do you think the Lord thought of Marcus Aurelius’ greatness?  Look here, Rupert ­here is Decius, and here is Diocletian.”

“Were they persecutors too?”

“Great.  It is so strange to look at their faces here, in this museum, after so many centuries.  I suppose they will stand here, maybe, till the end of the world.  Come away ­we have been so long in this gallery we have not left time enough for the other rooms.”

They went to the Hall of the Gladiator; and there Dolly studied the figure which gives name to the place, with a kind of rapt intensity.  She described to her companion the meaning of the marble; but it was not the same thing to them both.  Dolly was lost in delighted contemplation.  Rupert looked on with a kind of incredulous scorn.

“You don’t care for it?” she said suddenly, catching a sight of his face.

“What’s it good for?” said Rupert.  “This ain’t a likeness of anybody, is it?”

“It is a likeness of a great many people.  Hundreds and hundreds died in such fashion as that, for the pleasure of the Roman people.”

“Well, would it have been any satisfaction to you to see it?”

“Why, no!  I hope not.”

“Then why do you like to see it here now?”

“I don’t! this is not reality, but an image.”

“I can’t see why you should like to look at the image, when you couldn’t bear the reality.”

“Why, Rupert” ­ Dolly began, but her further words were cut off.

“Met again!” said a soft voice.  “You here! we did not know you would be in Rome so soon.”

“Dolly!” exclaimed Christina, who followed her mother.  “That’s delightful.  Dolly Copley in Rome! and in the Museo Capitolino.  Who is with you?”

“We are all here,” said Dolly, smiling.

“Yes, yes, in Rome, of course; but you are not in the museum alone?”

Dolly presented Mr. Babbage.

“And how is your mother?” Mrs. Thayer went on.  “Better!  I am so glad.  I thought she would be better in Italy.  And what have you done with your handsome cavaliero servente ­Mr. St. Leger?”

“I left him at home with a magazine, in which I think there was a story,” said Dolly.

“Impossible! his gallantry allowed you to come alone?”

“Not his gallantry, but perhaps his sense of weakness,” Dolly answered.

“Of weakness, my dear?  Is he a weak young man?  He does not look it.”

“Very good muscular power, I daresay; but when we talk of power of will, you know ‘weakness’ is relative.  I forbade him, and he did not dare to come.”

“You forbade him! and he obeyed?  But, Christina, I do not think you have Mr. Shubrick in such training as that.  Would he obey, if you gave him orders?”

“Probably the relations are different,” said Dolly, obliging herself to keep a grave face.  “I am in a happy independence of Mr. St. Leger which allows me to command him.”

“Independence!” said Mrs. Thayer, with an air half curious, half confounded, which was a severe trial to Dolly’s risible muscles.  “I know young ladies are very independent in these days ­I don’t know whether it is a change for the better or not ­but I do not think Christina would boast of her independence of her knight-errant.”

“No,” said Dolly.  “The cases are different ­as I said.  Mr. St. Leger does not stand in that particular relation to me.”

“Doesn’t he?  But, my dear, I hope you haven’t quarrelled?”

“Not at all,” said Dolly.  “We do not like each other well enough to quarrel.”

“But he struck me as a most delightful young man.”

“I believe he generally makes that impression.”

“I used to know his father,” said Mrs. Thayer.  “He was a sad flirt.  I know, you see, my dear, because I was one myself.  I am glad Christina does not take after me.  But I used to think it was great fun.  Is Mr. St. Leger anything of a flirt?”

“I have had no opportunity of knowing, ma’am,” said Dolly gravely.

“Well, you will bring him to see us?  You are all coming to make us a visit at our villa, at Sorrento; and Mr. Shubrick is coming; Christina wants to show him to you; you know a girl is always proud of her conquests; and then we will go everywhere and make you see everything.  You have just no notion how delightful it is at Sorrento in the spring and summer.  It’s Paradise!”

“But you are coming first to spend Christmas with me, Dolly,” said her friend, who until now had hardly been able to get in a word.  “I have five thousand things to talk to you about.  My sailor friend has promised to be here too, if he can, and his ship is in the Mediterranean somewhere, so I guess he can; and I want you to see him.  Come and spend Christmas Eve with me ­do! and then we shall have a chance to talk before he comes.  Of course there would be no chance after,” she added with a confident smile.

Dolly was not much in a mood for visiting, and scantly inclined to mix in the joyous circle which must be breathing so different an atmosphere from her own.  She doubted besides whether she could leave her watch and ward for so long a time as a night and a day.  Yet it was pleasant to see Christina, and the opportunity to talk over old times was tempting; and her friend’s instances were very urgent.  Dolly at last gave a conditional assent; and they parted; Dolly and Rupert taking the way home.

“Is that lady a friend of yours?” Rupert enquired.

“The daughter; not the mother.”

“The old lady, I meant.  She has a mind to know all about us.”

“Why?”

“She asked me about five hundred and fifty questions, after she quitted you.”

“What did you tell her?”

“I told her what she knew before,” said Rupert, chuckling.  “Her stock of knowledge hasn’t grown very much, I guess, by all she got out of me.  But she tried.”

Dolly was silent.  After a short pause, Rupert spoke again in quite another tone.

“Miss Dolly, you’ve put me in a sort of a puzzle.  You said a little while ago, or you spoke as if you thought, that all those grand old Roman emperors were not after all great men.  Then, if they were not great, what’s a fellow to try for?  If a common fellow does his best, he will not get to the hundredth or the thousandth part of what those men did.  Yet you say they were not great.  What’s the use of my trying, for instance, to do anything, or be anything?”

“What did they do, Rupert?”

“Well, you seem to say, nothing!  But don’t you come to Rome to admire what they did?”

“Some of the things they did, or made.  But stand still here, Rupert, and look.  Do you see the Rome of the Caesars?  You see an arch here and a theatre there; but the city of those days is buried.  It is under our feet.  The great works of art here, those that were done in their day, were not done by them.  Do you think it is any good to one of those old emperors in the other world ­take the best of them ­is it any good to him now that he had some of these splendid buildings erected, or marbles carved?  Or that his armies conquered the world, and his government held order wherever his arms went?  If he is happy in the presence of God, is it anything to him, now, that we look back and admire his work? ­and if he is unhappy, banished that Presence, is it anything to him then?”

“Well, what is greatness then?” said Rupert.  “What is worth a man’s trying for, if these greatest things are worth nothing?”

“I do not think anything is really great or worth while,” said Dolly, “except those things that God likes.”

“You come back to religion,” said Rupert.  “I did not mean religion.  What are those things?”

“I do not think anything is worth trying for, Rupert, except the things that will last.”

“What things will last?” said he half impatiently.

“Look here,” said Dolly.  “Step a little this way.  Do you see the Colosseum over yonder?  Who do you think will remember, and do remember, that with most pleasure; Vespasian and Titus who built it, or the Christians who gave themselves to the lions there for Christ’s sake?”

“Yes,” said Rupert, “of course; but that isn’t the thing.  There are no lions here now.”

“There are lions of another sort,” said Dolly, standing still and with her eyes fixed upon the wonderful old pile in the distance.  “There is always work to be done for God, Rupert, and dangers or difficulties to be faced; and to the people who face any lions for His sake, there is a promise of praise and honour and blessing that will last for ever.”

“Then you would make all a man’s work to be work for God?” said Rupert, not satisfied with this view of the question.  “What is to become of all the rest of the things that are to be done in the world?”

“There ought not to be anything else done in the world,” said Dolly, laughing, as she turned and began to walk on again.  “It ought all to be done for Him.  Merchants ought to make money for His service; and lawyers ought to strive to bring God’s order between man and man, and justice to every one, and that never wrong should be done or oppression exercised by anybody.  ’Break every yoke, and let the oppressed go free.’  And soldiers ought to fight for no other reason but to protect weaker people from violence and wrong.  And so on of everything else.  And, Rupert, God has promised a city, of His own preparing, for His people; it will be a place of delights; and I am thinking of that word, ­’Blessed are they that do His commandments; that they may have a right to the tree of life, and may enter in through the gates into the city.’  I don’t believe anybody that is left outside will think much of what we call greatness in that day.”

“Why, the world wouldn’t be the world, at that rate,” cried Rupert.

“Think it wouldn’t be altered for the better?”

“But a few people can’t make it like that.”

“Suppose they make only a very little piece of it like that? ­But then comes the end, Rupert, and the King’s ‘Well done!’”

“Then you wouldn’t have a man make as much as he can of himself,” said Rupert after a dissatisfied pause.

“Certainly I would.”

“What use?”

“Oh, to be a better servant to his Master, the best he possibly can; and to do more work for Him; the most he can do.”

“It seems to me, Miss Dolly, if you are right, pretty much all the rest of the world are wrong.”

“Yes, Rupert; don’t you remember the Bible says that the wrong way is the broad way, where almost all the people go?”

Rupert’s meditations this time held him till they got home.

The days that intervened before Christmas were filled full with delightful business.  Dolly had her anxieties, it is true; but she was in Rome.  What could stand against the witchery of the enchantress city?  Anxieties fell into the background; and with all the healthy, elastic spring of her young years Dolly gave herself to the Present and the Past, and rejoiced, hour by hour and step by step, in what the Present and the Past opened up to her.  True, her father and mother hardly shared in her pleasure; Mr. Copley’s taste was blunted, I fear, for all noble enjoyment; and Mrs. Copley cared mainly to be comfortable in her home quarters, and to go out now and then where the motley world of fashion and of sight-seeing did most congregate.  Especially she liked to go to the Pincian Hill Sunday afternoon, and watch the indescribable concourse of people of all nationalities which is there to be seen at that time.  But there Dolly would not go.

“It is very absurd of you, Dolly!” cried her mother, greatly disappointed; for she had a pride in seeing the universal attention which was drawn to Dolly in every public place.  “What harm should there be in looking at the beautiful view and hearing music? we are not going to do anything.”

“It’s the Lord’s day, mother,” said Dolly, looking up at her sorrowfully.

“You went to church this morning all right,” her mother said.  “There is no church for you to go to at this time of day, that I know of; and if there were, I should think it very ridiculous to go again.  If you want to think, you could think about good things, I should hope, on the Pincian.  What is there to hinder you?”

“Only everything I should see and hear, mother.”

“Hinder you from thinking about good things!”

“Hinder me from thinking about anything,” said Dolly, laughing a little.

“Seriously, Miss Dolly,” said Lawrence, who stood by, hat in hand, ready to go; the Pincian Hill Sunday evening was something he quite approved of; ­“seriously, do you think there is anything wrong in sitting up there for an hour or two, and seeing the beautiful sunset colours, and hearing the music?”

“She’s a little Puritan,” said her father; “and the Puritans were always an obstinate set, Lawrence; always, and in every nation and people.  I wonder why the two things should go together.”

“What two things, father?”

“What you call Puritanism and obstinacy.”

“I suppose because those you call Puritans love the truth,” said Dolly; “and so hold to it.”

“And do you not think other people, who are not Puritans, also love the truth, Miss Dolly?” Lawrence asked.

“I don’t think anybody loves the truth he disobeys,” Dolly said with a gentle shake of her head.

“There!” said her mother.  “There’s Dolly all over.  She is right, and nobody else is right.  I wonder what she supposes is to become of all the rest of the world!  Everybody in Rome will be on the Pincian to-night except Dolly Copley.  And every other mother but me will have her daughter with her.”

In answer to which Dolly kissed her, pulled the strings of her bonnet into a prettier bow, and looked at her with sweet, shining eyes, which said as plainly as possible without words that Mrs. Copley knew better.  The party went off, nevertheless; and Lawrence, lingering till the others had turned their backs, held out his hand to Dolly.

“Will you tell me,” said he, “as a favour, what you think is the harm of what we are doing?”

“You are just robbing the King of heaven and earth,” Dolly answered gravely.

“Robbing!  Of what?”

“Of time which He says is His, and of honour which He says ought to be His.”

“How?”

“‘The seventh day is the Sabbath of the Lord thy God.’”

“This is not the seventh; it is the first.”

“Quibbling, Mr. St. Leger.  It is not the seventh from Monday, but it is the seventh from Sunday; it is the one day set apart from the seven.”

“And what ought we to do with it?  Sabbath means rest, does it not?  What are we going to do but rest up there on the Pincian? only rest most delightfully.  You will not rest so here.”

“I suppose your bodies will rest,” said Dolly.  “Your minds will have most uncommon powers of abstraction if they do.”

“But you are putting yourself out of the world, Dolly.”

“I mean it,” said she with a little nod at him.  “The Lord’s people are not of the world, Mr. St. Leger; and the world does not like their ways.  Never did.”

“I wonder if all Puritans are as quaint as you,” said he, kissing the hand he held.  But then he went off to the Pincian.

And there, surely, was a most wonderful, rich, and varied scene; a concourse of people of all characters and nationalities ­except the small party in the world which Dolly represented; a kaleidoscope view of figures and costumes, classes and callings, most picturesque, most diversified, most changeful.  There were the Thayers, amongst others; and as they joined company with the Copley party, of course Mrs. Copley’s pleasure was greatly increased; for in a crowd it is always pleasant to know somebody.  Mr. Copley knew several people.  Mrs. Thayer had leisure to tell and ask whatever she had a mind with Mrs. Copley, and to improve her acquaintance with Mr. St. Leger; who on his part managed to get some conversation with the beautiful Christina.  It was a distinction to be talking to such a beauty, and he felt it so; and Christina on her part was not insensible to the fact that the young man was himself very handsome, and unexceptionably well dressed, and the heir to many thousands; therefore a person of importance.  The time on the Pincian Hill that evening was very pleasantly spent; and so Mrs. Copley told her daughter on their return.

“Mrs. Thayer said she was very sorry not to see you,” Mrs. Copley added.

“I am much obliged to her.”

“You are not obliged to her at all, for she didn’t mean it.  That’s what you get by staying behind.”

“What?” said Dolly, dimpling up.

“That woman had it all her own way; talked to Mr. St. Leger, and let him talk to her daughter.  You see, Dolly, Christina is very handsome when you are not by.”

“Mother, she is at any time.  She’s beautiful.  You must not set me up in comparison with her.”

“Well, she’s engaged,” said Mrs. Copley.  “I wish you were.  You let everything hang by the eyelids, Dolly; and some fine morning what you look for won’t be there.”