The End of a Coil. Warner Susan

or rode to the races. Dolly herself was taken by young Mr. St. Leger, along with one of his sisters, in an elegant little vehicle for which she knew no name. It was very comfortable, and they drove very fast – till the crowd hindered them, that is; and certainly Dolly was amused. All was novel and strange to her; the concourse, the equipages, the people, the horses, even before they arrived at the race grounds. There a good position was secured, and Dolly saw the whole of that day's performances. Mr. St. Leger attended to her unremittingly; he and his sister explained everything, and pointed out the people of mark within their range of vision; his blue eyes grew quite animated, and looked into Dolly's to see what they could find there, of response or otherwise. And Dolly's eyes were grave and wide-awake, intent, very busy, very lively, but how far they were brightened with pleasure he could not tell. They were bright, he saw that; fearless, pure, sweet eyes, that yet baffled him; no trace of self-consciousness or self-seeking was to be found in them; and young St. Leger stood a little in awe, as common men will, before a face so uncommon. He ventured no direct question for the satisfying of his curiosity until they had returned, and dinner was over. Indeed he did not venture it then; it was his father who asked it. He too had observed the simple, well-bred, lovely little maiden, and had a little curiosity on his own part.

      "Well, Miss Copley – now you have seen Epsom, how do you like it?"

      Dolly hesitated. "I have been very much interested, sir, thank you," she said gravely.

      "But how do you like it? Did you enjoy it?"

      Dolly hesitated again. Finally smiled and confessed. "I was sorry for the horses."

      "Sorry for the horses!" her host repeated. "What for?"

      "Yes, what for?" added the younger St. Leger. "They were not ill treated."

      "No, – " said Dolly doubtfully, "perhaps not, – but they were running very hard, and for nothing."

      "For nothing!" echoed Mr. St. Leger again. "It was for a good many thousand pounds. There's many a one was there to-day who wishes they had run for nothing!"

      "But after all, that is for nothing," said Dolly. "It is no good to anybody."

      "Except to those that win," said the old gentleman. "Except to those that win!" Probably he had won.

      Dolly wanted to get out of the conversation. She made no answer. Another gentleman spoke up, and opined, were it not for the money won and lost, the whole thing would fail of its attraction. It would be no sport indeed, if the horses ran for nothing. "Do you have no races in – a – your country?" he asked Dolly.

      Dolly believed so. She had never been present at them.

      "Nothing like Epsom," said her father. "We shall have nothing to show like that for some time. But Dolly takes practical views. I saw her smiling out of the windows, as we drove along, coming here yesterday; and I asked her what she was thinking of? I expected to hear her say, the beauty of the plantations, or the richness of the country, or the elegance and variety of the equipages we passed. She answered me she was thinking what she should do with her life!"

      There was a general gentle note of amusement audible through the room, but old Mr. St. Leger laughed out in a broad "ha, ha."

      "What did you conclude, my dear?" said he. "What did you conclude? I am interested to know."

      "I could not conclude then, sir," said Dolly, bearing the laugh very well, with a pretty little peach-blossom blush coming upon her cheeks.

      "'Tisn't difficult to know," the old gentleman went on, not unkindly watching Dolly's face play. "There is one pretty certain lot for a pretty young woman. She will manage her household, take care of her husband, and bring up her children, – one of these days."

      "That is not precisely the ambition of all pretty young women," remarked one of the party; while Mrs. St. Leger good humouredly drew Dolly down to a seat beside her and engrossed her attention.

      "You meant the words perhaps in another sense, more practical, that your father did not think of. You were thinking maybe what profession you would follow?"

      "I beg your pardon, ma'am!" said Dolly, quite perplexed now. "How do you mean, profession?"

      "Yes; perhaps you were thinking of being a governess some day, or a teacher, or something of that sort; were you?"

      Dolly's face dimpled all over in a way that seemed to young St. Leger the very prettiest, winningest, most uncommon loveliness that his eyes had ever been blessed with. Said eyes were inseparable from Dolly; he had no attention but for her looks and words; and his mother knew as much, while she too looked at the girl and waited for her answer.

      "Oh no," Dolly said; "I was not thinking of any such thing. My father does not wish me to do anything of the kind."

      "Then what did you mean, my dear?"

      Dolly lifted a pair of sweet grave eyes to the face of her questioner; a full, rather bloated face, very florid; with an expression of eyes kindly indeed, but unresting, dissatisfied; or if that is too strong a word, not content. Dolly looked at all this and answered —

      "I don't want to live merely to live, ma'am."

      "Don't you? What more do you want? To live pleasantly, of course; for not to do that, is not what I call living."

      "I was not thinking of pleasant living. But – I do not want my life to be like those horses running to-day," said Dolly smiling; "for nothing; of no use."

      "Don't you think a woman is of use and fills her place, my dear, who looks after her household and attends to her family, and does her duty by society?"

      "Yes," said Dolly hesitating, – "but that is not enough." The girl was thinking of her own mother at the moment.

      "Not enough? Why, yes, it is enough. That is a woman's place and business. What else would you do?"

      Dolly was in some embarrassment now. She must answer, for Mrs. St. Leger was waiting for it; but her answer could not be understood. Her eye took in again the rich appliances for present enjoyment which filled the room, above, below, and around her; and then she said, her eye coming back —

      "I would like my life to be good for something that would not pass away."

      "Not pass away? Why, everything passes away, my child" (and there came a sigh here), – "in time. The thing is to make the best of them while we have them."

      Is that all? thought Dolly, as she noticed the untested, rather sad look of her hostess's face; and she wished she could say more, but she dared not. Then young Mr. St. Leger bent forward, and inquired what she could be thinking of that would not pass away? His mother saw the look with which his blue eyes sought the face of the little stranger; and turned away with another sigh, born half of sympathy with her boy's feeling and half of jealousy against the subject of it. Dolly saw the look too, but did not comprehend it. She simply wondered why these people put her through the catechism so?

      "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.