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Applications of Integration 6
6.1 More About Areas

Suggested Time and Emphasis

1 class Essential material (areas enclosed by parametric curves is optional, but recommended)

Points to Stress

1. Integration used to determine the area between graphs of functions.

2. Integration used to determine the area enclosed within a parametric curve, or several such curves.

Text Discussion

• Why is it sometimes easier to integrate with respect to y than with respect to x to find the area between
two curves?
ANSWER In order to integrate with respect to x, function formulas have to be solved for y . In cases like
x = y3 + y this is very hard to do.
b β
• How do we go from a y dx to α g (t) f  (t) dt when computing the area under the parametric curve
x = f (t), y = g (t), α ≤ t ≤ β ?

• In Example 6, we have x = r (θ − sin θ), dx = r (1 − cos θ) dθ. Why have we used the derivative with
respect to θ, rather than the derivative with respect to r?

Materials for Lecture

b
• Note that if f ≥ g the area between f and g is a [f (x) − g (x)] dx regardless of the signs of f and
g . Check this statement with the examples f (x) = x, g (x) = −2 cos x, 0 ≤ x ≤ π2 , or f (x) = −x,
g (x) = 1
2 (x − 2)2 − 2, 0 ≤ x ≤ 2.

• Compute the area enclosed by the curves y = x2 , y = x3 , x = −1, and x = 2 as two separate integrals:
1  2 3
 2 3 2

−1 x − x dx + 1 x − x dx. Point out that we could also write this as a single integral, namely
2 2 3
−1 x − x dx.
25
ANSWER 12
377
 CHAPTER 6 APPLICATIONS OF INTEGRATION

• Give an example, such as the one below, where changing from y = f (x) and y = g (x) to x = h (y) and
x = k (y) makes integration easier.
y

1
y=(x+1)! ?%

x=-y@+3y

_1 0 1 2 x
 1.261  2   
ANSWER The area is approximately 0 −y + 3y − y5 − 1 dy ≈ 2.3077.

• Discuss how the area of a region such as the one below can be found using integration.
y f(x)
3

0 1 2 3 x
_1
 1.5 3
ANSWER 0 [f (x) − (−2x + 2)] dx − 1.5 [f (x) − (2x − 4)] dx, or use symmetry to get
 1.5
2 0 [f (x) − (−2x + 2)] dx.

• Develop the formula for the area enclosed by a parametric curve.

• Foreshadow polar coordinates by finding the area of the ellipse 14 x2 + y2 = 1 using the parametrization
x = 2 cos θ, y = sin θ.

Workshop/Discussion

• Numerically estimate the points where f (x) = sin x and g (x) = x3 − 2x − 1 intersect, and then compute
the area between the curves.
ANSWER The intersection points are x ≈ −1.413, x ≈ −0.350, and x ≈ 1.767. The area is approximately
 −0.350  3    1.767   
−1.413 x − 2x − 1 − (sin x) dx + −0.350 (sin x) − x3 − 2x − 1 dx ≈ 4.418.
y
2 g

1 f

_2 _1 0 1 2 x

_1

_2

378
 SECTION 6.1 MORE ABOUT AREAS

• Compute the area between f (x) = − sin x and g (x) = −2 sin x from 0 to π . A picture of this area is
shown below. Have the students estimate the answer before computing it.

ANSWER Surprisingly, the area is exactly 2.

• Compute the area between the parabola 2x = y 2 − 4 and the line y = −3x + 2. Note that these curves
intersect at the point (0, 2); the other point of intersection can then be computed. Point out that integrating
with respect to y makes this problem easier.
2   
ANSWER −8/3 − 13 (y − 2) − 12 y 2 − 4 dy = 686
81 . Integrating with respect to x gives
 0 √   √   14/9   √ 
−2 2x + 4 − − 2x + 4 dx + 0 (−3x + 2) − − 2x + 4 dx = 686 81 .
• Compute the area between the curves f (x) = ex − 1 and g (x) = 2 ln (x + 1) for − 12 ≤ x ≤ 12 . Point out
what happens at x = 0.
y
g
1
f
1
__
2
1 x
_
2

_1

_2
27
ANSWER 2 + ln 16 − (1 + e) e−1/2
• The graph of x (t) = t2 − 5, y (t) = sin (t), −20 ≤ t ≤ 20 is a chain-like series of loops. Demonstrate
the method of computing areas of parametric curves by finding the area enclosed by the leftmost loop
(between t = −π and t = π ).

Group Work 1: Practice with Areas

The emphasis of this exercise should be on how to set up an integral to compute area, not on the computation
itself. You may want the students to compute a few, such as in Problems 1, 3 and 6, but they shouldn’t get so
bogged down in the calculations that they miss the point of the activity.
The fifth problem requires the use of technology to find the points of intersection. After students have com-
pleted the sixth problem, show them how to simplify the computation using symmetry.
ANSWERS (for graphs see next page)
3 2
1. 0 (8 − 2x ) dx = 24 − ln72 2. 0 3x dx = ln83
1 √ √ 2 2     
3. 0 1 − x2 − (1 − x) dx = 14 π − 1
6 4. 0 3 1 − 14 y 2 − − 14 y 2 + 1 dy = − 43 + 32 π
379
 CHAPTER 6 APPLICATIONS OF INTEGRATION

 1.714   
5. 0 cos x − 12 x − 1 dx ≈ 1.969

 0  1     2    
6. −2 2x + 1 − x2 − 4 dx + 0 − 12 x + 1 − x2 − 4 dx
 0  1    38
=2 −2 2x + 1 − x2 − 4 dx = 3

1. y 2. y 3. y
8 1
8

6 6

4 4

2 2

0 1 2 3 x 0 1 2 x 0 1 x
4. y 5. y 6. y
2 1
1

_2 _1 0 1 2 x
_1
1
0 1 x _2

_3

0 1 2 3 x _1 _4

Group Work 2: Clarifying Areas

WARNING This one is tricky.

This exercise, Problem 12 in the Focus on Problem Solving section after this chapter, is for classes that have
covered parametric curves, and the areas enclosed by parametric regions. It develops the equations of an
involute of a circle. String, tape, and paper towel rolls should be made available to the students for Problem 2.
Note that although θ is the parameter, the curve is not given in polar form because the cow is tethered to a
point on the circle of radius r rather than to the origin.
The picture in the answer to Problem 2 below may be given as a hint for Problem 4. A1 + A2 can be computed
by integrating y dx from θ = π to θ = π2 and subtracting off the integral from θ = 0 to θ = π2 .
380
 SECTION 6.1 MORE ABOUT AREAS

ANSWERS
1. πr
2.

3. The coordinates of T are (r cos θ, r sin θ). Since T P was unwound

from arc T A, T P has length rθ, the length of the sector. Also,
P T Q = P T R − QT R = π2 − θ, so P has coordinates
 
x = r cos θ + |T P | cos P T Q = r cos θ + rθ cos π2 − θ =
r (cos θ + θ sin θ) and y = r sin θ + |T P | sin P T Q =
 
r sin θ + rθ sin π2 − θ = r (sin θ − θ cos θ).
π 3 r2  π/2  π/2 0
4. A3 = 14 π (πr)2 = . A1 + A2 = π y dx − 0 y dx = π y dx. Using the results from Problem 3
4  
   0 π π3
gives A1 + A2 = r2 −θ cos2 θ − 12 θ2 − 1 sin θ cos θ − 16 θ3 + 12 θ π = r2 + . Therefore, the
2 6
total area is 56 π 3 r2 .

Homework Problems
CORE EXERCISES 2, 6, 15, 21, 23, 27, 29, 33, 40
SAMPLE ASSIGNMENT 2, 3, 6, 9, 15, 17, 21, 22, 23, 26, 27, 29, 30, 33, 35, 38, 40, 43

EXERCISE D A N G EXERCISE D A N G
2 × × × 26 × ×
3 × × × 27 × ×
6 × × × 29 × × ×
9 × × × 30 × × × ×
15 × × × 33 × ×
17 × × × 35 ×
21 × × × 38 ×
22 × × × 40 × ×
23 × × × 43 ×

381
 GROUP WORK 1, SECTION 6.1
Practice with Areas
For each of the following problems, first sketch the relevant area, then write out the definite integral that will
give its exact value.
1. The area bounded by y = 2x , y = 8, and the y-axis.

2. The area bounded by y = 3x , x = 2, the x-axis, and the y -axis.

3. The area in the first quadrant between x2 + y2 = 1 and x1/2 + y1/2 = 1.

x2 y2 y2
4. The area in the first quadrant bounded by the curves + = 1 and x = − + 1.
9 4 4

5. The area between the curves y = cos x and y = 12 x − 1, bounded on the left by the y-axis.

 1
2x + 1 if x ≤ 0
6. The area bounded by the curves y = x2 − 4 and y =
− 12 x + 1 if x > 0

382
 GROUP WORK 2, SECTION 6.1
Clarifying Areas
Clara the Calculus Cow has been tied to a silo with radius r by a rope just long enough to reach a point
diametrically opposite to the point where she is tied, as depicted in the diagram below:

If she goes to the left side of the silo, she can stand far away from the silo, while at the right side, she can only
graze right next to the silo. We wish to compute the total area of the region upon which she can graze.
1. How far from the silo can sweet Clara stand when she is to its left?

2. Draw a picture of the shape of the region that she can reach. It may help to actually tie a string to a
cardboard tube, and model the situation.

383
 Clarifying Areas

3. Assume that a very long rope is wound around the circular silo, and then unwound while being held taut.
The curve traced by the end of the rope is called the involute of the circle. If the silo has radius r and
center O, as shown in the figure below, and if the parameter θ is chosen as in the figure, show that the
parametric equations of the involute are
x = r (cos θ + θ sin θ) y = r (sin θ − θ cos θ)

r
¬ P

O x

4. What is the area of the grazing region available to Clara the Calculus Cow?

384
6.2 Volumes
Suggested Time and Emphasis
1–1 12 classes Essential material

Points to Stress
b
1. The general volume formula V = a A (x) dx.
2. The application of the general formula to various types of solids, such as solids with given cross-sections
and solids of revolution.

Text Discussion
 2  2
• In Example 4, why is it true that A (x) = πx2 − π x2 instead of A (x) = π x − x2 ?
ANSWER The cross-sections are shaped like concentric circles. Their area is the area of the outer disk,
πR2 , minus the area of the inner disk, πr2 .
• Examples 4 and 5 use a method sometimes called “the method of washers”. What is the reason for the
choice of this term?
ANSWER The cross sections resemble washers.

Materials for Lecture

• This is a good time to revisit the ideas given in “Principles of Problem Solving” after Chapter 1.
Demonstrate with several examples how these steps can be used to find a formula for the cross-sectional
area A (x) of a solid.
• Define a solid beam with cross-sections as in the figure below at left:

x
x

x x

Find the cross-sectional area A (x), 0 ≤ x ≤ 5, and then compute the volume.
5
ANSWER A (x) = 6x2 − πx2 ⇒ V = 0 (6 − π) x2 dx = 250 − 125 3 π
• Describe the general approach for rotating y = f (x) about the line y = k over the interval [a, b], and
similarly for x = g (y) rotated around the line x = m.
• Many party stores have wedding or Halloween decorations that are good for demonstrating rotated regions.
They are sold as flat cross-sections, but unfold accordion-style when rotated around a central axis.
Common shapes are Halloween pumpkins or wedding bells.
385
 CHAPTER 6 APPLICATIONS OF INTEGRATION

• Demonstrate how to find the volume of the solid obtained by

rotating the indicated area about the line y = 2. Use the method of
slicing, but emphasize the value of deriving an expression for A (x),
as opposed to just plugging numbers into a formula. Then set up the
corresponding integrals for the solid obtained by rotating the same
area around x = 0.
1 2    1/e 1
ANSWER 0 π 22 − (e−x ) dx = 12 π 7 + e−2 , 0 π (1)2 dx + 1/e π (− ln y)2 dy = −4e−1 π + 2π

Workshop/Discussion

• Rotate the region below about the x-axis, and compute the volume
of the resulting solid. Then do the same for the line x = −1 and the
line y = −1.

1  2  2 5
1  2  2 79
ANSWER 0 π x1/4 − π x4 dx = 9 π, 0 π x1/4 + 1 − π x4 + 1 dx = 45 π ,
 1  1/4 2  4 2 79
0 π y +1 −π y +1 dy = 45 π

• Describe a water tower modeled by rotating the function y

⎧ 2
4

⎨2−x
⎪ if 0 < x ≤ 1
3
f (x) =  1 if 1 < x ≤ 5
⎪
⎩ 4 − (x − 7)2 + 1 if 5 ≤ x ≤ 9 2

1
about the x-axis, and set up the integrals necessary to compute its
volume. 0 2 4 6 8 x
 2
1  2 5 9
ANSWER V = 0 π 2 − x2 dx + 1 π (1)2 dx + 5 π 4 − (x − 7)2 + 1 dx
 323 
= 15 π + 4π 2 ≈ 107.127
386
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 SECTION 6.2 VOLUMES

• Write the formula (without computing the integral) for the volume obtained by rotating the region below
about the x-axis.

y=x

y=(x-1)#+1

 "  "
1 2 2 2
ANSWER 0 π (x − 1)3 + 1 − πx2 dx + 1
2 3
πx − π (x − 1) + 1 dx (= π )

• Demonstrate how to find the volume of the ANSWER

solid whose base is the region lying between y
y2
the parabolas x = and x = 3 − 2y 2
and 1
whose cross-sections taken perpendicular to
the x-axis are squares.
0 1 2 3 x
z
y

_1

The Base
 3  2
x=y@
 1 √ 2 3−x
(2 x) dx + 2 dx = 6
0 1 2
x=3-2y@ x

x=0 x=1
x=3

• Set up an integral for the volume of the solid described in the following problem: A wedge is cut out of a
log of radius 1 foot by cutting two slices to the center, each making an angle of 45◦ to the ground. What is
the volume of the resulting wedge?

45º 45º

(Cross-sections of the wedge taken perpendicular to the axis of the log are isosceles right triangles. If
we model a cross-section of the log with the circle x2 + y 2 = 1, then the altitude of these triangles at a
√
horizontal distance x from the axis of the log is 1 − x2 .)
387
 CHAPTER 6 APPLICATIONS OF INTEGRATION

• Revisit the problem of computing the volume formed by rotating y = e−x , 0 ≤ x ≤ 1 about the y-
axis, using cylindrical shells. Compare this computation to the slicing method (which would require two
integrals in this case).
2
• Compute the volume generated by rotating y = ex , 0 ≤ x ≤ 1 about the y -axis. Discuss the problems
with trying to compute the volume generated by rotating this curve about the x-axis.

Group Work 1: The Revolution Will Not Be Televised

This series of drill problems gives the students practice with regions rotated about different lines. If a group
finishes early, have them either approximate or solve the integrals.
ANSWERS
2  2
1. 0 π (4x)2 − π x3 dx = 512
21 π ≈ 76.595
2  2
2. 0 π (4x + 1)2 − π x3 + 1 dx = 680
21 π ≈ 101.728
2   2
3. 0 π 9 − x3 − π (9 − 4x)2 dx = 1000 21 π ≈ 149.600
 8  √ 2  y 2
4. 0 π 3 y − π 4 dy = 128
15 π ≈ 26.808
8   2  √ 2
5. 0 π 2 − y4 − π 2 − 3 y dy = 112
15 π ≈ 23.457
 8 √ 2 y 2
6. 0 π 3 y + 1 − π 4 + 1 dy = 248
15 π ≈ 51.941

Group Work 2: Edible Volumes

The students should be alerted to the fact that the volume integrals in Problems 2(b) and 3 involve the use of

trigonometric substitutions in computing integrals of the form a2 − y2 dy . Time can be saved by using
technology to do the definite integrals. This exercise can also be reinforced by assigning Exercise 35.
ANSWERS
1. Solids of revolution can be used to describe the doughnut, bagel, bowl of soup, watermelon, carafe, certain
sausages, and the cupcake, if it is frosted symmetrically.
2. The problem is that there is no proper hole, just a depression.
(a) The Californian bagel has a bigger hole.
 2 
 3/4  9 3
2  
9 3
2 − π − 16 − y2 + 4 + 1
(b) Standard: 2 0 π 16 − y + 4 + 1 dy ≈ 19.431
  2   2 
 3/4 9 3 9 3
2 2
Californian: 2 0 π 16 − y + 4 + 2 − π − 16 − y + 4 + 2 dy ≈ 30.534

3., 4. Answers will vary.

5. A good strategy is to set up a volume as
 3/4 #  2   2 $
9 2 3 9 3
2 π 16 − y + 4 +K − π − 16 − y2 + 4 +K dy
0

placing this nasty-looking integral on a calculator with a numerical integration feature. Then, using a key
such as ENTRY , vary the values of K until your answer is close to your opponents’.

388
 SECTION 6.2 VOLUMES

Group Work 3: Astroid Fragments

Set up this activity by sketching x1/2 + y 1/2 = 1 on the board. Close by describing the relevant regions.
ANSWERS
1  2
1. 2π 0 x 1 − x1/2 dx = 15 π
1  2 1 4
2. 2π 0 y 1 − y 1/2 dy = π 0 1 − x1/2 dx = 15 π

3. The volumes are the same because the shapes are identical.

Group Work 4: Geometric Volumes

This group work gives students practice with finding expressions for cross-sectional areas of familiar shapes.
ANSWERS
 4  2  4 1  1 2 3   3  x 2
1. 0 14 x dx = 4
3 2. 0 2 2x dx = 8
3 3. 0 (2.5) 2 − 23 x dx = 7.5 4. 1
0 2π 3 dx = 12 π

Homework Problems
CORE EXERCISES 1, 3, 9, 16, 20, 25, 28, 31, 39, 45, 49
SAMPLE ASSIGNMENT 1, 2, 3, 5, 9, 14, 16, 20, 21, 25, 26, 28, 31, 33, 36, 39, 42, 45, 47, 49, 51

EXERCISE D A N G
1 × × ×
2 × × ×
3 × × ×
5 × × ×
9 × × ×
14 × ×
16 × ×
20 ×
21 × ×
25 ×
26 ×
28 × ×
31 × ×
33 ×
36 ×
39 × ×
42 ×
45 × ×
47 ×
49 × ×
51 ×

389
 GROUP WORK 1, SECTION 6.2
The Revolution Will Not Be Televised
Consider the following region:
y
8

6
y=4x
4
y=x#
2

0 1 2 x

For each problem below, set up an integral to compute the volume of the solid obtained by rotating this region
about the given line.
1. The x-axis

2. y = −1

3. y = 9

390
 The Revolution Will Not Be Televised

4. The y -axis

5. x = 2

6. x = −1

391
Other documents randomly have
different content
grass.
I am nothing but a muff; you know that of old. And never did I feel
my own deficiencies come home to me as they did then. Any one
else might have known how to stop the bleeding—for of course it
ought to be stopped—if only by stuffing a handkerchief into the
wound. I did not dare attempt it; I was worse at any kind of surgery
than a born imbecile. All in a moment, as I stood there, the young
gipsy-woman’s words of the morning flashed into my mind. She had
foreseen some ill for him, she said; had scented it in the air. How
strange it seemed!
The next to come upon the scene was the Squire, crushing through
the brambles when he heard our voices. He and Sir John, in dire
wrath at our flight, had come out to look for us and to marshal us
back for the start home. I gave him a few whispered words of
explanation.
“What!” cried he. “Dying?” and his face went as pale as the man’s.
“Oh, my poor fellow, I am sorry for this!”
Stooping over him, the Squire pulled the coat aside. The stains were
larger now, the flow was greater. North bent his head forward to
look, and somehow got his hand wet in the process. Wet and red.
He snatched it away with a kind of horror. The sight seemed to bring
upon him the conviction that his minutes were numbered. His
minutes. Which is the last and greatest terror that can seize upon
man.
“I’m going before God now, and I’m not fit for it,” he cried, a
shrieking note, born of emotion, in his weakening voice. “Can there
be any mercy for me?”
The Squire seemed to feel it—he has said so since—as one of the
most solemn moments of his life. He took off his spectacles—a habit
of his when much excited—dropped them into his pocket, and
clasped his hands together.
“There’s mercy with God through the Lord Jesus always,” he said,
bending over the troubled face. “He pardoned the thief on the Cross.
He pardoned all who came to Him. If you are Walter North, as they
tell me, you must know all this as well as I do. Lord God have mercy
upon this poor dying man, for Christ’s sake!”
And perhaps the good lessons that North had learnt in childhood
from his mother, for she was a good woman, came back to him then
to comfort him. He lifted his own hands towards the skies, and half
the terror went out of his face.
Some one once said, I believe, that by standing stock still in the
Strand, and staring at any given point, he could collect a crowd
about him in no time. In the thronged thoroughfares of London
that’s not to be surprised at; but what I should like to know is this—
how is it that people collect in deserts? They do, and you must have
seen it often. Before many minutes were over we had quite a levee:
Sir John Whitney, William, and Featherston’s nephew; three or four
labourers from Vale Farm; Harry Vale, who had met Featherston,
and outrun him; and one of the tall sons of Colonel Leonard. The
latter, a young fellow with lazy limbs, a lazy voice, and supercilious
manner, strolled up, smacking a dog-whip.
“What’s the row here?” cried he: and William Whitney told him. The
man had been shot: by whom or by what means, whether wilfully or
accidentally, remained to be discovered.
“Did you do it—or your brothers?” asked Harry Vale of him in a low
tone. And Herbert Leonard whirled round to face Vale with a
haughty stare.
“What the devil do you mean? What should we want to shoot a
tramp for?”
“Any way, you were practising with pistols at your target over yonder
this afternoon.”
Leonard did not condescend to reply. The words had angered him.
By no possibility could a shot, aimed at their target, come in this
direction. The dog-whip shook, as if he felt inclined to use it on
Harry Vale for his insolent suggestion.
“Such a fuss over a tramp!” cried Leonard to Sir John, not caring
who heard him. “I dare say the fellow was caught thieving, and got
served out for his pains.”
But he did not well know Sir John—who turned upon him like
lightning.
“How dare you say that, young man! Are you not ashamed to give
utterance to such sentiments?”
“Look here!” coolly retorted Leonard.
Catching hold of the bag to shake it, out tumbled a dead hen with
ruffled feathers. Sir John looked grave. Leonard held it up.
“I thought so. It is still warm. He has stolen it from some poultry-
yard.”
I chanced to be standing close to North as Leonard said it, and felt a
feeble twitch at my trousers. Poor North was trying to attract my
attention; gazing up at me with the most anxious face.
“No,” said he, but he was almost too faint to speak now. “No. Tell
them, sir, No.”
But Harry Vale was already taking up the defence. “You are wrong,
Mr. Herbert Leonard. I gave that hen myself to North half-an-hour
ago. Some little lads, my cousins, are at the farm to-day, and one of
them accidentally killed the hen. Knowing our people would not care
to use it, I called to North, who chanced to be passing at the time,
and told him he might take it if he liked.”
A gleam of a smile, checked by a sob, passed over the poor man’s
face. Things wear a different aspect to us in the hour of death from
what they do in lusty life. It may be that North saw then that theft,
even of a fowl, was theft, and felt glad to be released from the
suspicion. Sir John looked as pleased as Punch: one does not like to
hear wrong brought home to a dying man.
Herbert Leonard turned off indifferently, strolling back across the
field and cracking his whip; and Featherston came pelting up.
The first thing the doctor did, when he had seen North’s face, was to
take a phial and small glass out of his pocket, and give him
something to drink. Next, he made a clear sweep of us all round,
and knelt down to examine the wound, just as the poor gipsy wife,
fetched by the child, appeared in sight.
“Is there any hope?” whispered the Squire.
“Hope!” whispered back Featherston. “In half-an-hour it will be over.”
“God help him!” prayed the Squire. “God pardon and take him!”
Well, well—that is about all there is to tell. Poor North died, there as
he lay, in the twilight; his wife’s arm round his neck, and his little girl
feebly clasped to him.
What an end to the bright and pleasant day! Sir John thanked
Heaven openly that it was not we who had caused the calamity.
“For somebody must have shot him, lads,” he observed, “though I
dare say it was accidental. And it might have chanced to be one of
you—there’s no telling: you are not too cautious with your guns.”
The “somebody” turned out to be George Leonard. Harry Vale (who
had strong suspicions) was right. When they dispersed after their
target practising, one of them, George, went towards Briar Wood,
his pistol loaded. The thick trees afforded a promising mark, he
thought, and he carelessly let off the pistol at them. Whether he saw
that he had shot a man was never known; he denied it out and out:
didn’t know one was there, he protested. A waggoner, passing
homewards with his team, had seen him fire the pistol, and came
forward to say so; or it might have been a mystery to the end.
“Accidental Death,” decided the jury at the inquest; but they
recommended the supercilious young man (just as indifferent as his
brothers) to take care what he fired at for the future. Mr. George did
not take the rebuke kindly.
For these sons had hard, bad natures; and were doing their best to
bring down their father’s grey hairs with sorrow to the grave.

But how strange it seemed altogether! The poor young gipsy-wife’s

subtle instinct that evil was near!—and that the shot should just
have struck him instead of spending itself harmlessly upon one of
the hundreds of trees! Verily there are things in this world not to be
grasped by our limited understandings.
 THE STORY OF DOROTHY GRAPE.

DISAPPEARANCE.

I.

According to Mrs. Todhetley’s belief, some people are born to be

unlucky. Not only individuals, but whole families. “I have noticed it
times and again, Johnny, in going through life,” she has said to me:
“ill-luck in some way lies upon them, and upon all they do; they
cannot prosper, from their cradle to their grave.” That there will be
some compensating happiness for these people hereafter—for they
do exist—is a belief we all like to cherish.
I am now going to tell of people in rather humble life whom this ill-
luck seemed to attend. That might never have brought the family
into notice, ups and downs being so common in the world: but two
mysterious disappearances occurred in it, which caused them to be
talked about; and those occurrences I must relate before coming to
Dorothy’s proper history. They took place before my time; in fact
when Squire Todhetley was a young man, and it is from him that I
repeat it.
At this end of the village of Islip, going into it from Crabb, there
stood on the right-hand side of the road a superior cottage
residence, with lovely yellow roses intertwining themselves about its
porch. Robert Grape and his wife lived in it, and were well enough to
do. He was in the “post-horse duty,” the Squire said—whatever that
might mean; and she had money on her own account. The cottage
was hers absolutely, and nearly one hundred pounds a-year income.
The latter, however, was only an annuity, and would die with her.
There were two children living: Dorothy, softened by her friends into
Dolly; and Thomas. Two others, who came between them, went off
in what Mrs. Grape used to call a “galloping consumption.” Dolly’s
cheeks were bright and her eyes were blue, and her soft brown hair
fell back in curls from her dimpled face. All the young men about,
including the Squire, admired the little girl; more than their mothers
did, who said she was growing up vain and light-headed. Perhaps
she might be; but she was a modest, well-behaved little maiden. She
went to school by day, as did her brother.
Mr. Grape’s occupation, connected with the “post-horse duty,”
appeared to consist in driving about the country in a gig. The length
of these journeys varied, but he would generally be absent about
three weeks. Then he would come home for a short interval, and go
off again. He was a well-conducted man and was respected.
One Monday morning in summer, when the sun was shining on the
yellow roses and the dew glittered on the grass, Robert Grape was
about to start on one of these journeys. Passing out to his gig, which
waited at the gate, after kissing his wife and daughter, he stopped to
pluck a rose. Dolly followed him out. She was sixteen now and had
left school.
“Take care your old horse does not fall this time, father,” said she,
gaily and lightly.
“I’ll take care, lass, if I can,” he answered.
“The truth is, Robert, you want a new horse,” said Mrs. Grape,
speaking from the open door.
“I know I do, Mary Ann. Old Jack’s no longer to be trusted.”
“Shall you be at Bridgenorth to-morrow?”
“No; on Wednesday evening. Good-bye once more. You may expect
me home at the time I’ve said.” And, with those last words he
mounted his gig and drove away.
From that day, from that hour, Robert Grape was never more seen
by his family. Neither did they hear from him: but he did not, as a
rule, write to them when on his journeys. They said to one another
what delightful weather he was having this time, and the days
passed pleasantly until the Saturday of his expected return.
But he did not come. Mrs. Grape had prepared a favourite dinner of
his for the Sunday, lamb and peas, and a lemon cheese-cake. They
had to take it without him. Three or four more days passed, and still
they saw nothing of him. Mrs. Grape was not at all uneasy.
“I think, children, he must have been mistaken in a week,” she said
to Dolly and Tom. “It must be next Saturday that he meant. I shall
expect him then.”
He did not come. The Saturday came, but he did not. And the
following week Mrs. Grape wrote a letter to the inn at Bridgenorth,
where he was in the habit of putting-up, asking when he had left it,
and for what town.
Startling tidings came back in answer. Mr. Grape had quitted the
place nearly four weeks ago, leaving his horse and gig at the inn. He
had not yet returned for them. Mrs. Grape could not make it out;
she went off to Worcester to take the stage-coach for Bridgenorth,
and there made inquiries. The following was the substance of what
she learned:—
On Wednesday evening, the next day but one after leaving his
home, Mr. Grape approached Bridgenorth. Upon entering the town,
the horse started and fell: his master was thrown out of the gig, but
not hurt; the shafts were broken and the horse lamed. “A pretty
kettle of fish, this is,” cried Mr. Grape in his good-humoured way to
the ostler, when the damaged cavalcade reached the inn: “I shall
have to take a week’s holiday now, I suppose.” The man’s answer
was to the effect that the old horse was no longer of much good; Mr.
Grape nodded assent, and remarked that he must be upon the look-
out for another.
In the morning, he quitted the inn on foot, leaving the horse to the
care of the veterinary surgeon, who said it would be four or five
days before he would be fit to travel, and the gig to have its shafts
repaired. Mr. Grape observed to the landlord that he should use the
opportunity to go on a little expedition which otherwise he could not
have found time for, and should be back before the horse was well.
But he never had come back. This was recounted to Mrs. Grape.
“He did not give any clue as to where he was going,” added the
landlord; “he started away with nothing but his umbrella and what
he might have put in his pockets, saying he should walk the first
stage of his journey. His portmanteau is up in his bedroom now.”
All this sounded very curious to Mrs. Grape. It was unlike her open,
out-speaking husband. She inquired whether it was likely that he
had been injured in the fall from the gig and could be lying ill
somewhere.
The landlord shook his head in dissent. “He said he was not hurt a
bit,” replied he, “and he did not seem to be. He ate a good supper
that night and made a famous breakfast in the morning.”
An idea flashed across Mrs. Grape’s mind as she listened. “I think he
must have gone off for a ramble about the Welsh mountains,” spoke
she. “He was there once when a boy, and often said how much he
should like to go there again. In fact he said he should go when he
could spare the time.”
“May be so,” assented the landlord. “Them Welsh mountains be
pleasant to look upon; but if a mist comes on, or one meets with an
awkward pass, or anything of that sort—well, ma’am, let’s hope we
shall see him back yet.”
After bringing all the inquiries to an end that she was able to make,
Mrs. Grape went home in miserable uncertainty. She did not give up
hope; she thought he must be lying ill amongst the Welsh hills,
perhaps had caught a fever and lost his senses. As the days and the
weeks passed on, a sort of nervous expectancy set in. Tidings of him
might come to her any day, living or dead. A sudden knock at the
door made her jump; if the postman by some rare chance paid them
a visit—for letters were not written in those days by the bushel—it
set her trembling. More than once she had hastily risen in the middle
of the night, believing she heard a voice calling to her outside the
cottage. But tidings of Robert Grape never came.
That was disappearance the first.
In the spring of the following year Mrs. Grape sold her pretty
homestead and removed to Worcester. Circumstances had changed
with her. Beyond what little means had been, or could be, saved, the
children would have nothing to help them on in the world. Tom,
thirteen years old now, must have a twelvemonth’s good schooling
before being placed at some business. Dolly must learn a trade by
which to get her living. In past times, young people who were not
specially educated for it, or were of humble birth, did not dream of
making themselves into governesses.
“You had better go to the mantua-making, Dolly,” said Mrs. Grape.
“It’s nice genteel work.”
Dolly drew a wry face. “I should not make much hand at that,
mother.”
“But what else is there? You wouldn’t like the stay-making——”
“Oh dear, no.”
“Or to serve in a pastry-cook’s shop, or anything of that sort. I
should not like to see you in a shop, myself; you are too—too giddy,”
added Mrs. Grape, pulling herself up from saying too pretty. “I think
it must be the mantua-making, Dolly: you’ll make a good enough
hand at it, once you’ve learnt it. Why not?”

II.
The house rented by Mrs. Grape at Worcester was near the London
Road. It was semi-detached, and built, like its fellow in rather a
peculiar way, as though the architect had found himself cramped for
space in width but had plenty of it in depth. It was close to the road,
about a yard only of garden ground lying between. The front-door
opened into the sitting-room; not a very uncommon case then with
houses of its class. It was a fair-sized room, light and pretty, the
window being beside the door. Another door, opposite the window,
led to the rest of the house: a small back-parlour, a kitchen, three
rooms above, with a yard and a strip of garden at the back. It was a
comfortable house, at a small rent; and, once Mrs. Grape had
disposed her tasty furniture about it to advantage, she tried to feel
at home and to put aside her longing to be back under the old roof
at Islip.
In the adjoining house dwelt two Quaker ladies named Deavor, an
aunt and niece, the latter a year or two older than Dolly. They
showed themselves very friendly to the new-comers, as did their
respectable old servant-maid, and the two families became intimate
neighbours.
Dolly, seventeen now, was placed with Miss Pedley, one of the first
dressmakers in the city, as out-door apprentice. She was bound to
her for three years, and went to and fro daily. Tom was day-scholar
at a gentleman’s school in the neighbourhood.
One Saturday evening in summer, when they had been about three
months in their new abode, Mrs. Grape was sitting at the table in the
front-room, making up a smart cap for herself. She had never put on
mourning for her husband, always cherishing the delusive hope that
he would some day return. Tom sat by her, doing his lessons; Dolly
was near the open window, nursing a grey kitten. Tom looked as hot
as the evening, as he turned over the books before him with a
puzzled face. He was a good-looking boy, with soft brown eyes, and
a complexion as brilliant as his sister’s.
“I say, mother,” cried he, “I don’t think this Latin will be of much
good to me. I shan’t make any hand at it.”
“You will be like me then, Tom, for I’m sure I shall never make much
of a hand at dressmaking,” spoke up Dolly. “Miss Pedley sees it too.”
“Be quiet, Dolly; don’t talk nonsense,” said Mrs. Grape. “Let Tom
finish his tasks.”
Thus reprimanded, silence ensued again. It grew dusk; candles were
lighted and the window was shut down, as the breeze blew them
about; but the bright moonlight still streamed in. Presently Dolly left
the room to give the kitten its supper. Suddenly, Tom shut up his
books with a bang.
“Finished, Tom?”
“Yes, mother.”
He was putting them away when a knock came to the front-door.
Tom opened it.
“Halloa, Bill!” said he.
“Halloa, Tom!” responded a boy’s voice. “I’ve come up to ask if you’ll
go fishing with me to-morrow.”
“To-morrow!” echoed Tom in surprise. “Why, to-morrow’s Sunday!”
“Bother! I mean Monday. I’m going up to the Weir at Powick: there’s
first-rate fishing there. Will you come, Tom?”
Mrs. Grape wondered who the boy was; she knew the voices of
some of Tom’s schoolfellows, but did not recognize this one. Tom,
standing on the low step outside, had partly closed the door behind
him, and she could not see out; but she heard every word as plainly
as though the speakers had been in the room.
“I should like to go, but I’m sure I could never get leave from
school,” said Tom. “Why, the Midsummer examination comes on the
end of next week; our masters just do keep us to it!”
“Stingy old misers! You might take French leave, Tom.”
“Mother would never let me do that,” returned Tom; and he probably
made a sign to indicate that his mother was within hearing, as both
voices dropped to a lower key; but Mrs. Grape still heard distinctly.
“Are you going to take French leave yourself, Bill?” added young
Grape. “How else shall you manage to get off?”
“Oh, Monday will be holiday with us; it’s a Saint’s Day. Look here,
Tom; you may as well come. Fishing, up at Powick, is rare fun; and
I’ve some prime bait.”
“I can’t,” pleaded Tom: “no good thinking about it. You must get one
of your own fellows instead.”
“Suppose I must. Well, good-night.”
“Good-night, Bill.”
“I touched you last,” added the strange voice. There was a shout of
laughter, the door flew back, Tom’s hand came in to snatch up his
cap, which lay on a table near, and he went flying after the other
boy.
They had entered upon the fascinating game of “Titch-touch-last.”
Mrs. Grape got up, laid her finished cap upon the table, shook the
odds and ends of threads from her black gown, and began to put
her needles and cotton in the little work-box. While she was doing
this, Dolly came in from the kitchen. She looked round the room.
“Why, where’s Tom, mother?”
“Some boy called to speak to him, and they are running about the
road at Titch-touch-last. The cap looks nice, does it not, Dolly?”
“Oh, very,” assented Dolly. It was one she had netted for her
mother; and the border was spread out in the shape of a fan—the
fashion then—and trimmed with yellow gauze ribbon.
The voices of the boys were still heard, but at a distance. Dolly went
to the door, and looked out.
“Yes, there the two are,” she cried. “What boy is it, mother?”
“I don’t know,” replied Mrs. Grape. “I did not see him, or recognize
his voice. Tom called him ‘Bill.’”
She went also to the door as she spoke, and stood by her daughter
on the low broad step. The voices were fainter now, for the lads, in
their play, were drawing further off and nearer to the town. Mrs.
Grape could see them dodging around each other, now on this side
the road, now on that. It was a remarkably light night, the moon, in
the cloudless sky, almost dazzlingly bright.
“They’ll make themselves very hot,” she remarked, as she and Dolly
withdrew indoors. “What silly things boys are!”
Carrying her cap upstairs, Mrs. Grape then attended to two or three
household matters. Half-an-hour had elapsed when she returned to
the parlour. Tom had not come in. “How very thoughtless of him!”
she cried; “he must know it is his bed-time.”
But neither she nor Dolly felt any uneasiness until the clock struck
ten. A shade of it crept over Mrs. Grape then. What could have
become of the boy?
Standing once more upon the door-step, they gazed up and down
the road. A few stragglers were passing up from the town: more
people would be out on a Saturday night than on any other.
“How dost thee this evening, friend Grape?” called out Rachel
Deavor, now sitting with her niece at their open parlour window in
the moonlight. Mrs. Grape turned to them, and told of Tom’s
delinquency. Elizabeth Deavor, a merry girl, came out laughing, and
linked her arm within Dolly’s.
“He has run away from thee to take a moonlight ramble,” she said
jestingly. “Thee had been treating him to a scolding, maybe.”
“No, I had not,” replied Dolly. “I have such a pretty grey kitten,
Elizabeth. One of the girls at Miss Pedley’s gave it to me.”
They stood on, talking in the warm summer night, Mrs. Grape at the
window with the elder Quakeress, Dolly at the gate, with the
younger, and the time went on. The retiring hour of the two ladies
had long passed, but they did not like to leave Mrs. Grape to her
uncertainty: she was growing more anxious with every minute. At
length the clocks struck half-past eleven, and Mrs. Grape, to the
general surprise, burst into tears.
“Nay, nay, now, do not give way,” said Rachel Deavor kindly.
“Doubtless he has but gone to the other lad’s home, and is letting
the time pass unthinkingly. Boys will be boys.”
“That unaccountable disappearance of my husband makes me more
nervous than I should otherwise be,” spoke Mrs. Grape in apology.
“It is just a year ago. Am I going to have a second edition of that, in
the person of my son?”
“Hush thee now, thee art fanciful; thee should not anticipate evil. It
is a pity but thee had recognized the boy who came for thy son;
some of us might go to the lad’s house.”
“I wish I had,” sighed Mrs. Grape. “I meant to ask Tom who it was
when he came in. Tom called him ‘Bill;’ that is all I know.”
“Here he comes!” exclaimed Dolly, who was now standing outside
the gate with Elizabeth Deavor. “He is rushing round the corner, at
full speed, mother.”
“Won’t I punish him!” cried Mrs. Grape, in her relieved feelings: and
she too went to the gate.
Dolly’s hopeful eagerness had misled her. It was not Tom. But it was
one of Tom’s schoolfellows, young Thorn, whom they all knew. He
halted to explain that he had been to a boys’ party in the Bath Road,
and expected to “catch it” at home for staying so late. Dolly
interrupted him to speak of Tom.
“What an odd thing!” cried the lad. “Oh, he’ll come home presently,
safe enough. Which of our fellows are named Bill, you ask, Miss
Grape? Let’s see. There’s Bill Stroud; and Bill Hardwick—that is,
William——”
“It was neither Stroud nor Hardwick; I should have known the voices
of both,” interrupted Mrs. Grape. “This lad cannot, I think, be in your
school at all, Thorn: he said his school was to have holiday on
Monday because it would be a Saint’s Day.”
“Holiday, because it was a Saint’s Day!” echoed Thorn. “Oh then, he
must have been one of the college boys. No other school goes in for
holidays on the Saints’ Days but that. The boys have to attend
service at college, morning and afternoon, so it’s not a complete
holiday: they can get it easily, though, by asking leave.”
“I don’t think Tom knows any of the college boys,” debated Dolly.
“Yes, he does; our school knows some of them,” replied Thorn.
“Good-night: I can’t stay. He is sure to turn up presently.”
But Tom Grape did not turn up. At midnight his mother put on her
bonnet and shawl and started out to look for him in the now
deserted streets of the town. Now and again she would inquire of
some late wayfarer whether he had met a boy that night, or perhaps
two boys, and described Tom’s appearance; but she could learn
nothing. The most feasible idea she could call up, and the most
hopeful, was that Tom had really gone home with the other lad and
that something must have happened to keep him there; perhaps an
accident. Dolly felt sure it must be so. Elizabeth Deavor, running in at
breakfast-time next morning to ask for news, laughingly said Tom
deserved to be shaken.
But when the morning hours passed and did not bring the truant or
any tidings of him, this hope died away. The first thing to be done
was to find out who the other boy was, and to question him.
Perhaps he had also disappeared!
Getting from young Thorn the address of those of the college boys—
three—who, as he chanced to know, bore the Christian name of
William, Mrs. Grape went to make inquiries at their houses. She
could learn nothing. Each of the three boys disclaimed all knowledge
of the affair; their friends corroborating their assertion that they had
not been out on the Saturday night. Four more of the King’s scholars
were named William, they told her; two of them boarding in the
house of the head-master, the Reverend Allen Wheeler.
To this gentleman’s residence, in the College Green, Mrs. Grape next
proceeded. It was then evening. The head-master listened
courteously to her tale, and became, in his awakened interest, as
anxious as she was to find the right boy. Mrs. Grape said she should
not know him, but should know his voice. Not one of the three boys,
already seen, possessed the voice she had heard.
The two boarders were called into the room, as a mere matter of
form; for the master was able to state positively that they were in
bed at the hour in question. Neither of them had the voice of the
boy who had called for Tom. It was a very clear voice, Mrs. Grape
said; she should recognize it instantly.
“Let me see,” said the master, going over mentally the list of the
forty King’s scholars: “how many more of you boys are named
William, beyond those this lady has seen?”
The boys considered, and said there were two others; William Smith
and William Singleton; both called familiarly “Bill” in the school. Each
of these boys had a clear, pleasant voice, the master observed; but
neither of them had applied for leave for Monday, nor had he heard
of any projected fishing expedition to Powick.
To the house of the Singletons next went Mrs. Grape: but the boy’s
voice there did not answer to the one she had heard. The Smith
family she could not see; they had gone out for the evening: and
she dragged herself home, utterly beaten down both in body and
spirit.
Another night of anxiety was passed, and then Mrs. Grape returned
to Mr. Smith’s and saw “Bill.” But Bill was hoarse as a raven; it was
not at all the clear voice she had heard; though he looked
desperately frightened at being questioned.
So there it was. Tom Grape was lost. Lost! and no clue remained as
to the why and wherefore. He must have gone after his father, said
the sympathizing townspeople, full of wonder; and a superstitious
feeling crept over Mrs. Grape.
But ere the week was quite over, news came to the desolate home:
not of Tom himself; not of the manner of his disappearance; only of
the night it happened. On the Friday evening Mrs. Grape and Dolly
were sitting together, when a big boy of sixteen appeared at their
door, Master Fred Smith, lugging in his brother Bill.
“He is come to confess, ma’am,” said the elder. “He blurted it all out
to me just now, too miserable to keep it in any longer, and I’ve
brought him off to you.”
“Oh, tell me, tell me where he is!” implored Mrs. Grape from her
fevered lips; as she rose and clasped the boy, Bill, by the arm.
“I don’t know where he is,” answered the boy in trembling
earnestness. “I can’t think where; I wish I could. I know no more
than the dead.”
“For what have you come here then?”
“To confess that it was I who was with him. You didn’t know my
voice on the Monday because I had such a cold,” continued he,
laying hold of a chair-back to steady his shaking hands. “I must have
caught it playing with Tom that night; we got so hot, both of us.
When I heard he had never been home since, couldn’t be found
anywhere, I felt frightened to death and didn’t like to say it was me
who had been with him.”
“Where did you leave him? Where did you miss him?” questioned the
mother, her heart sinking with despair.
“We kept on playing at titch-touch-last; neither of us would give in,
each wanted to have the last touch; and we got down past the Bath
Road, and on up Sidbury near to the canal bridge. Tom gave me a
touch; it was the last; and he rushed through the Commandery
gates. I was getting tired then, and a thought came to me that
instead of going after him I’d play him a trick and make off home;
and I did so, tearing over the bridge as hard as I could tear. And
that’s all the truth,” concluded the boy, bursting into tears, “and I
never saw Tom again, and have no more to tell though the head-
master hoists me for it to-morrow.”
“It is just what he said to me, Mrs. Grape,” put in the brother quietly,
“and I am sure it is the truth.”
“Through the Commandery gates,” repeated Mrs. Grape, pressing
her aching brow. “And you did not see him come out again?”
“No, ma’am, I made off as hard as I could go. While he was rushing
down there—I heard his boots clattering on the flags—I rushed over
the bridge homewards.”
The boy had told all he knew. Now that the confession was made,
he would be too glad to add more had he been able. It left the
mystery just as it was before; no better and no worse. There was no
outlet to the Commandery, except these iron gates, and nothing
within it that could have swallowed up Tom. It was a cul-de-sac, and
he must have come out again by these self-same gates. Whither had
he then gone?
It was proved that he did come out. When Mr. Bill Smith’s confession
was made public, an assistant to a doctor in the town remembered
to have seen Tom Grape, whom he knew by sight, as he was passing
the Commandery about that same time to visit a patient in Wyld’s
Lane. Tom came flying out of the gates, laughing, and looking up
and down the street. “Where are you, Bill?” he called out. The young
doctor, whose name was Seton, looked back at Tom, as he went on
his way.
But the young man added something more, which nobody else had
thought to speak of, and which afforded a small loop-hole of
conjecture as to what poor Tom’s fate might have been. Just about
that hour a small barge on the canal, after passing under Sidbury
bridge, came in contact with another barge. Very little damage was
done, but there was a great deal of shouting and confusion. As Mr.
Seton walked over the bridge, not a second before he saw Tom, he
heard the noise and saw people making for the spot. Had Tom Grape
made for it? He could easily have reached it. And if so, had he,
amidst the general pushing and confusion on the canal bank, fallen
into the canal? It was hardly to be imagined that any accident of this
kind could happen to him unseen; though it might be just possible,
for the scene for some minutes was one of tumult; but nothing
transpired to confirm it. The missing lad did not reappear, either
dead or alive.
And so poor Tom Grape had passed out of life mysteriously as his
father had done. Many months elapsed before his mother gave up
her search for him; she was always thinking he would come home
again, always hoping it. The loss affected her more than her
husband’s had, for Tom vanished under her very eye, so to say; all
the terror of it was palpably enacted before her, all the suspense had
to be borne and lived through; whereas the other loss took place at
a distance and she only grew to realize it by degrees; which of
course softened the blow. And the time went on by years, but
nothing was seen of Tom Grape.
That was disappearance the second.
Dolly left her place of business at the end of the three years for
which she had been apprenticed, and set up for herself; a brass
plate on her mothers door—“Miss Grape, Mantua-maker”—
proclaiming the fact to the world. She was only twenty then, with as
sweet a face, the Squire says, as Worcester, renowned though it is
for its pretty faces, ever saw. She had never in her heart taken
kindly to her business, so would not be likely to set the world on fire
with her skill; but she had tried to do her best and would continue to
do it. A little work began to come in now and then; a gown to be
turned or a spencer to be made, though not so many of them as
Dolly hoped for: but, as her mother said, Rome was not built in a
day.

III.

“Mother, I think I shall go to college this morning.”

So spoke Dolly at the breakfast-table one Sunday in July. The sun
was shining in at the open window, the birds were singing.
“It’s my belief, Dolly, you would go off to college every Sunday of
your life, if you had your way,” said Mrs. Grape.
Dolly laughed. “And so I would, mother.”
For the beautiful cathedral service had charms for Dolly. Islip Church
was a very primitive church, the good old clergyman was toothless,
the singing of the two psalms was led off by the clerk in a cracked
bass voice; there was no organ. Accustomed to nothing better than
this, the first time Dolly found herself at the cathedral, after their
removal to Worcester, and the magnificent services burst upon her
astonished senses, she thought she must have ascended to some
celestial sphere. The fine edifice, the musical chanting of the prayers
by the minor canons, the singing of the numerous choir, men and
boys in their white surplices, the deep tones of the swelling organ,
the array of white-robed prebendaries, the dignified and venerable
bishop—Cornwall—in his wig and lawn sleeves, the state, the
ceremony of the whole, and the glittering colours of the famed east
window in the distance; all this laid hold of Dolly’s senses for ever.
She and her mother attended St. Martin’s Church generally, but Dolly
would now and then lure her mother to the cathedral. Latterly Mrs.
Grape had been ailing and did not go anywhere.
“If you could but go to college to-day, mother!” went on Dolly.
“Why!”
“Mr. Benson preaches. I met Miss Stafford yesterday afternoon, and
she told me Mr. Benson had come into residence. The Herald said so
too.”
“Then you must go betimes if you would secure a seat,” remarked
Mrs. Grape. “And mind you don’t get your new muslin skirt torn.”
So Dolly put on her new muslin, and her bonnet, and started.
When the Reverend Christopher Benson, Master of the Temple,
became one of the prebendaries of Worcester, his fame as a
preacher flew to all parts of the town. You should hear the Squire’s
account of the crush in getting into the cathedral on the Sundays
that he was in residence: four Sundays in the year; or five, as the
case might be; all told. Members of other churches, Dissenters of
different sects, Quakers, Roman Catholics, and people who never
went anywhere at other times, scrupled not to run to hear Mr.
Benson. For reading like unto his, or preaching like unto his, had
rarely been heard in that cathedral or in any other. Though it might
be only the Gospel that fell to his share in the communion service,
the crowd listened, enraptured, to his sweet, melodious tones. The
college doors were besieged before the hour for opening them; it
was like going into a theatre.
Dolly, on this day, made one in the crowd at the cloister entrance;
she was pushed here and there; and although she hurried well with
the rest as soon as the doors were unlocked, every seat was taken
when she reached the chancel. She found standing room opposite
the pulpit, near King John’s tomb, and felt very hot in the crush.
“Is it always like this, here?”
The whispered words came from a voice at her side. Dolly turned,
and saw a tall, fine-looking, well-dressed man about thirty, with a
green silk umbrella in his hand.
“No,” she whispered back again. “Only for four or five Sundays, at
this time of the year, when Mr. Benson preaches.”
“Indeed,” said the stranger. “His preaching ought to be something
extraordinary to attract such a crowd as this.”
“And so it is,” breathed Dolly. “And his reading—oh, you never heard
any reading like it.”
“Very eloquent, I suppose?”
“I don’t know whether it may be called eloquence,” debated Dolly,
remembering that a chance preacher she once heard, who thumped
the cushions with his hands and shook the air with his voice, was
said to be eloquent. “Mr. Benson is the quietest preacher and reader
I ever listened to.”
The stranger seemed to be a kind sort of man. During the stir made
by the clergy, preceded by the six black-robed, bowing bedesmen,
going up to the communion-table, he found an inch of room on a
bench, and secured it for Dolly. She thanked him gratefully.
Mr. Benson’s sermon came to an end, the bishop gave the blessing
from his throne, and the crowd poured out. Dolly, by way of a
change, made her exit from the great north entrance. The
brightness of the day had changed; a sharp shower was falling.
“Oh dear! My new muslin will be wet through!” thought Dolly. “This
parasol’s of no use.”
“Will you allow me to offer you my umbrella—or permit me to hold it
over you?” spoke the stranger, who must have followed her out. And
Dolly hesitated and flushed, and did not know whether she ought to
say yes or no.
He held the umbrella over Dolly, letting his own coat get wet. The
shower ceased presently; but he walked on by her side to her
mother’s door, and then departed with a bow fit for an emperor.
“What a polite man!” thought Dolly. “Quite a gentleman.” And she
mentioned the occurrence to her mother; who seemed to-day more
poorly than usual.
They sat at the open window in the afternoon, and Dolly read aloud
the evening psalms. It was the fifth day of the month. As Dolly
finished the last verse and closed the book, Mrs. Grape, after a
moment’s silence, repeated the words:—
“The Lord shall give strength unto His people: the Lord shall give His
people the blessing of peace.”
“What a beautiful promise that is, Dolly!” she said in hushed tones.
“Peace! Ah, my dear, no one can know what that word means until
they have been sorely tried. Peace everlasting!”
Mrs. Grape leaned back in her chair, gazing upwards. The sky was of
a deep blue; a brilliant gold cloud, of peculiar shape, was moving
slowly across it just overhead.
“One could almost fancy it to be God’s golden throne in the brighter
land,” she murmured. “My child, do you know, the thought comes
across me at times that it may not be long before I am there. And I
am getting to long for it.”
“Don’t say that, mother,” cried the startled girl.
“Well, well, dear, I don’t want to frighten you. It is all as God
pleases.”
“I shall send to ask Mr. Nash to come to see you to-morrow, mother.
Do you feel worse?”
Mrs. Grape slightly shook her head. Presently she spoke.
“Is it not almost teatime, Dolly?—whoever is that?”
A gentleman, passing, with a red rose in his button-hole and silk
umbrella in his hand, was taking off his hat to Dolly. Dolly’s face
turned red as the rose as she returned the bow, and whispered to
her mother that it was the polite stranger. He halted to express a
hope that the young lady had not taken cold from the morning
shower.
He turned out to be a Mr. Mapping, a traveller in the wine trade for
some London house. But, when he was stating this to Mrs. Grape
during the first visit paid her (for he contrived to make good his
entrance to the house), he added in a careless, off-hand manner,
that he was thankful to say he had good private means and was not
dependent upon his occupation. He lingered on in Worcester, and
became intimate with the Grapes.
Events thickened. Before the next month, August, came in, Mrs.
Grape died. Dolly was stunned; but she would have felt the blow
even more keenly than she did feel it had she not fallen over head
and ears in love with Alick Mapping. About three hundred pounds, all
her mother’s savings, came to Dolly; excepting that, and the
furniture, she was unprovided for.
“You cannot live upon that: what’s a poor three hundred pounds?”
spoke Mr. Mapping a day or two after the funeral, his tone full of
tender compassion.
“How rich he must be himself!” thought poor Dolly.
“You will have to let me take care of you, child.”
“Oh dear!” murmured Dolly.
“We had better be married without delay. Once you are my wife——”
“Please don’t go on!” interposed Dolly in a burst of sobs. “My dear
mother is hardly buried.”
“But what are you to do?” he gently asked. “You will not like to live
here alone—and you have no income to live here upon. Your
business is worth nothing as yet; it would not keep you in gloves. If
I speak of these things prematurely, Dolly, it is for your sake.”
Dolly sobbed. The future looked rather desolate.
“You have promised to be my wife, Dolly: remember that.”
“Oh, please don’t talk of it yet awhile!” sobbed Dolly.
“Leave you here alone I will not; you are not old enough to take
care of yourself; you must have a protector. I will take you with me
to London, where you will have a good home and be happy as a
cricket: but you must know, Dolly, that I cannot do that until we are
married. All sensible people must say that you will be quite justified
under the circumstances.”
Mr. Alick Mapping had a wily tongue, and Dolly was persuaded to
listen. The marriage was fixed for the first week in September, and
the banns were put up at St. Martin’s Church; which, as every one
knows, stands in the corn-market. Until then, Mr. Mapping returned
to London; to make, as he told Dolly, preparations for his bride. An
acquaintance of Mrs. Grape’s, who had been staying with Dolly since
the death, would remain with her to the last. As soon as Dolly was
gone, the furniture would be sold by Mr. Stretch, the auctioneer, and
the proceeds transmitted to Dolly in London. Mrs. Grape had given
all she possessed to Dolly, in the fixed and firm belief that her son
was really no more.
But all this was not to be put in practice without a warning from
their neighbour, the Quaker lady; she sent for Dolly, being confined
to her own chamber by illness.
“Thee should not be in this haste, Dorothy,” she began. “It is not
altogether seemly, child, and it may not be well for thee hereafter.
Thee art too young to marry; thee should wait a year or two——”
“But I am not able to wait,” pleaded poor Dolly, with tears in her
eyes. “How could I continue to live alone in the house—all by
myself?”
“Nay, but thee need not have done that. Some one of discreet age
would have been glad to come and share expenses with thee. I
might have helped thee to a suitable person myself: a cousin of
mine, an agreeable and kindly woman, would like to live up this way.
But the chief objection that I see to this hasty union, Dorothy,”
continued Miss Deavor, “is that thee knows next to nothing about
the young man.”
Dolly opened her eyes in surprise. “Why, I know him quite well, dear
Miss Rachel. He has told me all about himself.”
“That I grant thee. Elizabeth informs me that thee has had a good
account from himself as to his means and respectability. But thee
has not verified it.”
“Verified it!” repeated Dolly.
“Thee has not taken steps to ascertain that the account he gives is
true. How does thee know it to be so?”
Dolly’s face flushed. “As if he would deceive me! You do not know
him, Miss Deavor.”
“Nay, child, I wish not to cast undeserved aspersion on him. But
thee should ask for proof that what he tells thee is correct. Before
thee ties thyself to him for life, Dorothy, thee will do well to get
some friend to make inquiries in London. It is my best advice to
thee, child; and it is what Mary Ann Grape, thy mother, would have
done before giving thee to him.”
Dolly thanked Miss Deavor and went away. The advice was well
meant, of course; she felt that; but quite needless. Suspect Alick
Mapping of deceit! Dolly would rather have suspected herself. And
she did nothing.
The morning of the wedding-day arrived in due course. Dolly was
attiring herself for the ceremony in a pretty new grey gown, her
straw bonnet trimmed with white satin lying on the bed (to resume
her black on the morrow), when Elizabeth Deavor came in.
“I have something to say to thee, Dolly,” she began, in a grave tone.
“I hardly knew whether to speak to thee or not, feeling not
altogether sure of the thing myself, so I asked Aunt Rachel, and she
thinks thee ought to be told.”
“What is it?” cried Dolly.
“I think I saw thy brother Tom last night.”
The words gave Dolly a curious shock. She fell back in a chair.
“I will relate it to thee,” said Elizabeth. “Last evening I was at Aunt
Rachel’s window above-stairs, when I saw a boy in dark clothes
standing on the pavement outside, just opposite thy gate. It was a
bright night, as thee knows. He had his arms folded and stood quite
still, gazing at this house. The moonlight shone on his face and I
thought how much it was like poor lost Tom’s. He still stood on; so I
went downstairs and stepped to our gate, to ask whether he was in
want of any one: and then, Dolly, I felt queerer than I ever felt in my
life, for I saw that it was Tom. At least, I thought so.”
“Did he speak?” gasped Dolly.
“He neither spoke nor answered me: he turned off, and went quickly
down the road. I think it was Tom; I do indeed.”
“What am I to do?” cried Dolly. “Oh, if I could but find him!”
“There’s nothing to do, that we can see,” answered the young
Quakeress. “I have talked it over with Aunt Rachel. It would appear
as though he did not care to show himself: else, if it were truly thy
brother, why did he not come in? I will look out for him every night
and speak to him if he appears again. I promise thee that, Dolly.”
“Why do you say ‘appears,’ Elizabeth?” cried the girl. “You think it
was himself, do you not; not his—his spirit?”
“Truly, I can but conclude it was himself.”
Dolly, in a state of bewilderment, what with one thing and another,
was married to Alick Mapping in St. Martin’s Church, by its white-
haired Rector, Digby Smith. A yellow post-chaise waited at the
church-gates and carried them to Tewkesbury. The following day
they went on by coach to Gloucester, where Mr. Mapping intended to
stay a few days before proceeding to London.
They took up their quarters at a comfortable country inn on the
outskirts of the town. On the second day after their arrival, Dolly,
about to take a country walk with her husband, ran downstairs from
putting her bonnet on, and could not see him. The barmaid told her
he had gone into the town to post a letter, and asked Dolly to step
into the bar-parlour to wait.
It was a room chiefly used by commercial travellers. Dolly’s attention
was caught by something over the mantelpiece. In a small glass-
case, locked, there was the portrait of a man cleverly done in pencil;
by its side hung a plain silver watch with a seal and key attached to
a short black ribbon: and over all was a visiting-card, inscribed in
ink, “Mr. Gardner.” Dolly looked at this and turned sick and faint: it
was her father’s likeness, her father’s watch, seal, and ribbon. Of an
excitable nature, she burst into tears, and the barmaid ran in. There
and then, the mystery so long hanging about Robert Grape’s fate
was cleared up, so far as it ever would be in this world.
He had left Bridgenorth, as may be remembered, on the Thursday
morning. Towards the evening of the following day, Friday, as Dolly
now heard, he appeared at this very inn. This same barmaid, an
obliging, neat, and modest young woman, presenting a rare contrast
to the barmaids of the present day, saw him come in. His face had a
peculiar, grey shade upon it, which attracted her notice, and she
asked him if he felt ill. He answered that he felt pretty well then, but
supposed he must have had a fainting-fit when walking into the
town, for to his surprise he found himself on the grass by the
roadside, waking up from a sort of stupor. He engaged a bedroom
for the night, and she thought he said—but she had never been
quite sure—that he had come to look out for a horse at the fair to be
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