The End of a Coil

"What could you be thinking of?" St. Leger repeated, sliding into the seat his mother had quitted.

"Don't you know anything that will last?" Dolly retorted.

"No," said the young man, laughing. "Do you? Except that I have heard that 'A thing of beauty is a joy forever.'"

This, which was a remarkable flight for St. Leger, was lost upon simple Dolly.

"Oh, I know that is true," she answered; "but that is just a way of speaking. It would not be a joy to me, if I had not something else to hold to. I am sorry for you."

"Really? I wish I could think that. It would be delightful to have you sorry for me."

"It would be much better not to need it."

"I don't know about that. Perhaps, if you were very sorry for me, you would try to teach me better."

"Perhaps; but I shall not have time. I suppose we shall go away very early in the morning."

"I should like to show you the gardens, first."

"Haven't we seen them?"

"Why, of course not. All that you have seen is a little shrubbery and a bit of the park. Suppose we go over the gardens in the morning?"

"I am sure we shall return home immediately after breakfast."

"Before breakfast then? Why not?"

This plan went into effect. It was an occasion of great pleasure to both parties. No better time could be for seeing the utmost beauty of the flowers; and Dolly wandered in what was to her a wilderness of an enchanted land. Breakfast was forgotten; and young St. Leger was so charmed with this perfectly fresh, simple, and lively nature, that he for his part was willing to forget it indefinitely. Dolly's utter delight, and her intelligent, quick apprehension, the sparkle in her eye, the happy colour in her cheeks, made her to his fancy the rarest thing he had ever seen. The gardener, who was summoned to give information of which his young master was not possessed, entertained quite the same opinion; and thanks to his admiring gratification Dolly went back to the house the possessor of a most superb bouquet, which he had cut for her and offered through Mr. St. Leger.

There were some significant half smiles around the breakfast table, as the young pair and the flowers made their appearance. St. Leger braved them; Dolly did not see them. Her sweet eyes were full of the blissful enchantment still. Immediately after breakfast, as she had said, her father took leave.

Mrs. Copley had awaited their coming in a mood half irritation, half gratification. The latter conquered when she saw Dolly.

"Now tell me all about it!" she said, before Dolly even could take off her bonnet.

"She went to the races," said Mr. Copley.

"That's a queer place for Dolly to go, Mr. Copley."

"Not at all. Everybody goes that can go."

"I think it's a queer place for young ladies to go," persisted the mother.

"It is a queer place enough for anybody, if you come to that; but no worse for them than for others; and it is they make the scene so pretty as it is."

"I can't imagine how there should be anything pretty in seeing horses run to death!" said Mrs. Copley.

"I just said it is the pretty girls that give the charm," said her husband. "Though I can see some beauty in a fine horse, and in good riding; and they understand riding, those Epsom jockeys."

"Jockeys!" his wife repeated. "I don't want to hear you talk about jockeys, Mr. Copley."

"I am not going to, my dear. I give up the field to Dolly."

"Mother, the first thing was the place. It is a most beautiful place."

"The race-ground?"

"No, no, mother; Mr. St. Leger's place. 'The Peacocks,' they call it."

"What do they give it such a ridiculous name for?"

"I don't know. Perhaps they used to have a great many peacocks. But the place is the most beautiful place I ever saw. Mother, we were half an hour driving from the lodge at the park gate to the house."

"The road so bad?"

"So long, mother; think of it; half an hour through the park woods, until we carne out upon the great lawn dotted with the noblest trees you ever saw."

"Better than the trees in Boston common? I guess not," said Mrs. Copley.

"Those are good trees, mother, but nothing to these. These are just magnificent."

"I don't see why fine trees cannot grow as well on American ground as on English," said Mrs. Copley incredulously.

"Give them time enough," put in her husband.

"Time!"

"Yes. We are a new country, comparatively, my dear. These old oaks here have been growing for hundreds of years."

"And what should hinder them from growing hundreds of years over there? I suppose the ground is as old as England; if Columbus didn't discover it all at once."

"The ground," said Mr. Copley, eyeing the floor between his boots, – "yes, the ground; but it takes more than ground to make large trees. It takes good ground, and favouring climate, and culture; or at least to be let alone. Now we don't let things alone in America."

"I know you don't," said his wife. "Well, Dolly, go on with your story."

"Well, mother, – there were these grand old trees, and beautiful grass under them, and cattle here and there, and the house showing in the distance. I did not like the house so very much, when we came to it; it is not old; but it is exceedingly handsome, and most beautifully furnished. I never had such a room in my life, as I have slept in these two nights."

"And yet you don't like it!" put in Mr. Copley.

"I like it," said Dolly slowly. "I like all the comfort of it; but I don't think it is very pretty, father. It's very new."

"New!" said her father. "What's the harm of a thing's being new? And what is the charm of its being old?"

"I don't know," said Dolly thoughtfully; "but I like it. Then, mother, came the dinner; and the dinner was like the house."

"That don't tell me anything," exclaimed Mrs. Copley. "What was the house like?"

"Mother, you go first into a great hall, set all round with marble figures – statues – and with a heavy staircase going up at one side. It's all marble. But oh, the flower garden is lovely!"