Dolly stood still. "What's the matter?" she said.
"Oh, he's so uneasy. As restless end fidgetty as a fish out of water. He is contented with nothing except when Mr. Shubrick is near him; he behaves quietly then, at least, however he feels. I believe it takes a man to manage a man. Though I never saw a man before that could manage your father. He laughs at it, and says it is the habit of giving orders."
"Who laughs at it?"
"Mr. Shubrick, to be sure. You don't suppose your father owns to minding orders? But he does mind, for all that. What will become of us when that young man goes away?"
"Why, mother?"
"My patience, Dolly! what have you done to heat yourself so! Your face is all flushed. Do keep away from the fire, or you'll certainly spoil your complexion. You're all flushed up, child."
"But father,—what about father?"
"Oh, he's just getting ready to take his own head, as soon as Mr. Shubrick slips the bridle off. He's talking of going up to town already; and he will go, I know, as soon as he can go; and then, Dolly, then—I don't know what will become of us!"
Mrs. Copley put her hands over her face, and the last words were spoken with such an accent of forlorn despair, that Dolly saw her mother must have found out or divined much that she had tried to keep from her. She hesitated with her answer. Somehow, the despair and the forlornness had gone out of Dolly's heart.
"I hope—I think—there will be some help, mother."