"Not always; but generally, the one are the means to the other."
"I believe I do not find it so."
"Then, pardon me, what would you substitute, Miss Lothrop, to fill up your life, and not have it a bare existence?"
"There is always work—" said Lois shyly; "and there are the pleasures that come without being wished for. I mean, without being particularly sought and expected."
"Does much come that way?" asked their entertainer, with an incredulous smile of mockery.
"O, a great deal!" cried Lois; and then she checked herself.
"This is a very interesting investigation, Mrs. Wishart," said the gentleman. "Do you think I may presume upon Miss Lothrop's good nature, and carry it further?"
"Miss Lothrop's good nature is a commodity I never knew yet to fail."
"Then I will go on, for I am curious to know, with an honest desire to enlarge my circle of knowledge. Will you tell me, Miss Lothrop, what are the pleasures in your mind when you speak of their coming unsought?"
Lois tried to draw back. "I do not believe you would understand them," she said a little shyly.
"I trust you do my understanding less than justice!"
"No," said Lois, blushing, "for your enjoyments are in another line."
"Please indulge me, and tell me the line of yours."
He is laughing at me, thought Lois. And her next thought was, What matter! So, after an instant's hesitation, she answered simply.
"To anybody who has travelled over the world, Shampuashuh is a small place; and to anybody who knows all you have been talking about, what we know at Shampuashuh would seem very little. But every morning it is a pleasure to me to wake and see the sun rise; and the fields, and the river, and the Sound, are a constant delight to me at all times of day, and in all sorts of weather. A walk or a ride is always a great pleasure, and different every time. Then I take constant pleasure in my work."
"Mrs. Wishart," said the gentleman, "this is a revelation to me. Would it be indiscreet, if I were to ask Miss Lothrop what she can possibly mean under the use of the term 'work'?"
I think Mrs. Wishart considered that itwouldbe rather indiscreet, and wished Lois would be a little reticent about her home affairs. Lois, however, had no such feeling.
"I mean work," she said. "I can have no objection that anybody should know what our life is at home. We have a little farm, very small; it just keeps a few cows and sheep. In the house we are three sisters; and we have an old grandmother to take care of, and to keep the house, and manage the farm."
"But surely you cannot do that last?" said the gentleman.
"We do not manage the cows and sheep," said Lois, smiling; "men's hands do that; but we make the butter, and we spin the wool, and we cultivate our garden.Thatwe do ourselves entirely; and we have a good garden too. And that is one of the things," added Lois, smiling, "in which I take unending pleasure."
"What can you do in a garden?"
"All there is to do, except ploughing. We get a neighbour to do that."
"And the digging?"
"I can dig," said Lois, laughing.
"But do not?"
"Certainly I do."
"And sow seeds, and dress beds?"
"Certainly. And enjoy every moment of it. I do it early, before the sun gets hot. And then, there is all the rest; gathering the fruit, and pulling the vegetables, and the care of them when we have got them; and I take great pleasure in it all. The summer mornings and spring mornings in the garden are delightful, and all the work of a garden is delightful, I think."
"You will except the digging?"
"You are laughing at me," said Lois quietly. "No, I do not except the digging. I like it particularly. Hoeing and raking I do not like half so well."
"I am not laughing," said Mr. Dillwyn, "or certainly not at you. If at anybody, it is myself. I am filled with admiration."
"There is no room for that either," said Lois. "We just have it to do, and we do it; that is all."
"Miss Lothrop, I never havehadto do anything in my life, since I left college."
Lois thought privately her own thoughts, but did not give them expression; she had talked a great deal more than she meant to do. Perhaps Mrs. Wishart too thought there had been enough of it, for she began to make preparations for departure.
"Mrs. Wishart," said Mr. Dillwyn, "I have to thank you for the greatest pleasure I have enjoyed since I landed."
"Unsought and unwished-for, too, according to Miss Lothrop's theory. Certainly we have to thank you, Philip, for we were in a distressed condition when you found us. Come and see me. And," she addedsotto voceas he was leading her out, and Lois had stepped on before them, "I consider that all the information that has been given you is strictly in confidence."
"Quite delicious confidence!"
"Yes, but not for all ears," added Mrs. Wishart somewhat anxiously.
"I am glad you think me worthy. I will not abuse the trust."
"I did not say I thought you worthy," said the lady, laughing; "I was not consulted. Young eyes see the world in the fresh colours of morning, and think daisies grow everywhere."
They had reached the street. Mr. Dillwyn accompanied the ladies a part of their way, and then took leave of them.
Sauntering back to his hotel, Mr. Dillwyn's thoughts were a good deal engaged with the impressions of the last hour. It was odd, too; he had seen all varieties and descriptions of feminine fascination, or he thought he had; some of them in very high places, and with all the adventitious charms which wealth and place and breeding can add to those of nature's giving. Yet here was something new. A novelty as fresh as one of the daisies Mrs. Wishart had spoken of. He had seen daisies too before, he thought; and was not particularly fond of that style. No; this was something other than a daisy.
Sauntering along and not heeding his surroundings, he was suddenly hailed by a joyful voice, and an arm was thrust within his own.
"Philip! where did you come from? and when did you come?"
"Only the other day—from Egypt—was coming to see you, but have been bothered with custom-house business. How do you all do, Tom?"
"What are you bringing over? curiosities? or precious things?"
"Might be both. How do you do, old boy?"
"Very much put out, just at present, by a notion of my mother's; she will go to Florida to escape March winds."
"Florida! Well, Florida is a good place, when March is stalking abroad like this. What are you put out for? I don't comprehend."
"Yes, but you see, the month will be half over before she gets ready to be off; and what's the use? April will be here directly; she might just as well wait here for April."
"You cannot pick oranges off the trees here in April. You forget that."
"Don't want to pick 'em anywhere. But come along, and see them at home.They'll be awfully glad to see you."
It was not far, and talking of nothings the two strolled that way. There was much rejoicing over Philip's return, and much curiosity expressed as to where he had been and what he had been doing for a long time past. Finally, Mrs. Caruthers proposed that he should go on to Florida with them.
"Yes, do!" cried Tom. "You go, and I'll stay."
"My dear Tom!" said his mother, "I could not possibly do without you."
"Take Julia. I'll look after the house, and Dillwyn will look after your baggage."
"And who will look after you, you silly boy?" said his sister. "You're the worst charge of all."
"What is the matter?" Philip asked now.
"Women's notions," said Tom. "Women are always full of notions! They can spy game at hawk's distance; only they make a mistake sometimes, which the hawk don't, I reckon; and think they see something when there is nothing."
"We know what we see this time," said his sister. "Philip, he's dreadfully caught."
"Not the first time?" said Dillwyn humorously. "No danger, is there?"
"There is real danger," said Miss Julia. "He is caught with an impossible country girl."
"Caughtbyher? Fie, Tom! aren't you wiser?"
"That's not fair!" cried Tom hotly. "She catches nobody, nor tries it, in the way you mean. I am not caught, either; that's more; but you shouldn't speak in that way."
"Who is the lady? It is very plain Tom isn't caught. But where is she?"
"She is a little country girl come to see the world for the first time. Of course she makes great eyes; and the eyes are pretty; and Tom couldn't stand it." Miss Julia spoke laughing, yet serious.
"I should not think a little country girl would be dangerous to Tom."
"No, would you? It's vexatious, to have one's confidence in one's brother so shaken."
"What's the matter with her?" broke out Tom here. "I am not caught, as you call it, neither by her nor with her; but if you want to discuss her, I say, what's the matter with her?"
"Nothing, Tom!" said his mother soothingly; "there is nothing whatever the matter with her; and I have no doubt she is a nice girl. But she has no education."
"Hang education!" said Tom. "Anybody can pick that up. She can talk, I can tell you, better than anybody of all those you had round your table the other day. She's an uncommon good talker."
"You are, you mean," said his sister; "and she listens and makes big eyes. Of course nothing can be more delightful. But, Tom, she knows nothing at all; not so much as how to dress herself."
"Wasn't she well enough dressed the other day?"
"Somebody arranged that for her."
"Well, somebody could do it again. You girls think so much ofdressing. It isn't the first thing about a woman, after all."
"You men think enough about it, though. What would tempt you to go out with me if I wasn'tassez bien mise?Or what would take any man down Broadway with his wife if she hadn't a hoop on?"
"Doesn't the lady in question wear a hoop?" inquired Philip.
"No, she don't."
"Singular want of taste!"
"Well, you don't like them; but, after all, it's the fashion, and one can't help oneself. And, as I said, you may not like them, but you wouldn't walk with me if I hadn't one."
"Then, to sum up—the deficiencies of this lady, as I understand, are,—education and a hoop? Is that all?"
"By no means!" cried Mrs. Caruthers. "She is nobody, Philip. She comes from a family in the country—very respectable people, I have no doubt, but,—well, she is nobody. No connections, no habit of the world. And no money. They are quite poor people."
"Thatisserious," said Dillwyn. "Tom is in such straitened circumstances himself. I was thinking, he might be able to provide the hoop; but if she has no money, it is critical."
"You may laugh!" said Miss Julia. "That is all the comfort one gets from a man. But he does not laugh when it comes to be his own case, and matters have gone too far to be mended, and he is feeling the consequences of his rashness."
"You speak as if I were in danger! But I do not see how it should come to be 'my own case,' as I never even saw the lady. Who is she? and where is she? and how comes she—so dangerous—to be visiting you?"
All spoke now at once, and Philip heard a confused medley of "Mrs. Wishart"—"Miss Lothrop"—"staying with her"—"poor cousin"—"kind to her of course."
Mr. Dillwyn's countenance changed.
"Mrs. Wishart!" he echoed. "Mrs. Wishart is irreproachable."
"Certainly, but that does not put a penny in Miss Lothrop's pocket, nor give her position, nor knowledge of the world."
"What do you mean by knowledge of the world?" Mr. Dillwyn inquired with slow words.
"Why! you know. Just the sort of thing that makes the difference between the raw and the manufactured article," Miss Julia answered, laughing. She was comfortably conscious of being thoroughly "manufactured" herself. No crude ignorances or deficiencies there.—"The sort of thing that makes a person at home andau faiteverywhere, and in all companies, and shuts out awkwardnesses and inelegancies.
"Doesit shut them out?"
"Why, of course! How can you ask? What else will shut them out? All that makes the difference between a woman of the world and a milkmaid."
"This little girl, I understand, then, is awkward and inelegant?"
"She is nothing of the kind!" Tom burst out. "Ridiculous!" But Dillwyn waited for Miss Julia's answer.
"I cannot call her justawkward," said Mrs. Caruthers.
"N-o," said Julia, "perhaps not. She has been living with Mrs. Wishart, you know, and has got accustomed to a certain set of things. She does not strike you unpleasantly in society, seated at a lunch table, for instance; but of course all beyond the lunch table is like London to a Laplander."
Tom flung himself out of the room.
"And that is what you are going to Florida for?" pursued Dillwyn.
"You have guessed it! Yes, indeed. Do you know, there seems to be nothing else to do. Tom is in actual danger. I know he goes very often to Mrs. Wishart's; and you know Tom is impressible; and before we know it he might do something he would be sorry for. The only thing is to get him away."
"I think I will go to Mrs. Wishart's too," said Philip. "Do you think there would be danger?"
"I don't know!" said Miss Julia, arching her brows. "I never can comprehend why the men take such furies of fancies for this girl or for that. To me they do not seem so different. I believe this girl takes just because she is not like the rest of what one sees every day."
"That might be a recommendation. Did it never strike you, Miss Julia, that there is a certain degree of sameness in our world? Not in nature, for there the variety is simply endless; but in our ways of living. Here the effort seems to be to fall in with one general pattern. Houses and dresses; and entertainments, and even the routine of conversation. Generally speaking, it is all one thing."
"Well," said Miss Julia, with spirit, "when anything is once recognized as the right thing, of course everybody wants to conform to it."
"I have not recognized it as the right thing."
"What?"
"This uniformity."
"What would you have?"
"I think I would like to see, for a change, freedom and individuality. Why should a woman with sharp features dress her hair in a manner that sets off their sharpness, because her neighbour with a classic head can draw it severely about her in close bands and coils, and so only the better show its nobility of contour? Why may not a beautiful head of hair be dressed flowingly, because the fashion favours the people who have no hair at all? Why may not a plain dress set off a fine figure, because the mode is to leave no unbroken line or sweeping drapery anywhere? And I might go on endlessly."
"I can't tell, I am sure," said Miss Julia; "but if one lives in the world, it won't do to defy the world. And that you know as well as I."
"What would happen, I wonder?"
"The world would quietly drop you. Unless you are a person of importance enough to set a new fashion."
"Is there not some unworthy bondage about that?"
"You can't help it, Philip Dillwyn, if there is. We have got to take it as it is; and make the best of it."
"And this new Fate of Tom's—this new Fancy rather,—as I understand, she is quite out of the world?"
"Quite. Lives in a village in New England somewhere, and grows onions."
"For market?" said Philip, with a somewhat startled face.
"No, no!" said Julia, laughing—"how could you think I meant that? No; I don't know anything about the onions; but she has lived among farmers and sailors all her life, and that is all she knows. And it is perfectly ridiculous, but Tom is so smitten with her that all we can do is to get him away. Fancy, Tom!"
"He has got to come back," said Philip, rising. "You had better get somebody to take the girl away."
"Perhaps you will do that?" said Miss Julia, laughing.
"I'll think of it," said Dillwyn as he took leave.
Philip kept his promise. Thinking, however, he soon found, did not amount to much till he had seen more; and he went a few days after to Mrs. Wishart's house.
It was afternoon. The sun was streaming in from the west, filling the sitting-room with its splendour; and in the radiance of it Lois was sitting with some work. She was as unadorned as when Philip had seen her the other day in the street; her gown was of some plain stuff, plainly made; she was a very unfashionable-looking person. But the good figure that Mr. Dillwyn liked to see was there; the fair outlines, simple and graceful, light and girlish; and the exquisite hair caught the light, and showed its varying, warm, bright tints. It was massed up somehow, without the least artificiality, in order, and yet lying loose and wavy; a beautiful combination which only a few heads can attain to.
There was nobody else in the room; and as Lois rose to meet the visitor, he was not flattered to see that she did not recognize him. Then the next minute a flash of light came into her face.
"I have had the pleasure," said Dillwyn. "I was afraid you were going to ignore the fact."
"You gave us lunch the other day," said Lois, smiling. "Yes, I remember. I shall always remember."
"You got home comfortably?"
"O yes, after we were so fortified. Mrs. Wishart was quite exhausted, before lunch, I mean."
"This is a pleasant situation," said Philip, going a step nearer the window.
"Yes, very! I enjoy those rocks very much."
"You have no rocks at home?"
"No rocks," said Lois; "plenty ofrock, or stone; but it comes up out of the ground just enough to make trouble, not to give pleasure. The country is all level."
"And you enjoy the variety?"
"O, not because it is variety. But I have been nowhere and have seen nothing in my life."
"So the world is a great unopened book to you?" said Philip, with a smile regarding her.
"It will always be that, I think," Lois replied, shaking her head.
"Why should it?"
"I live at Shampuashuh."
"What then? Here you are in New York."
"Yes, wonderfully. But I am going home again."
"Not soon?"
"Very soon. It will be time to begin to make garden in a few days."
"Can the garden not be made without you?"
"Not very well; for nobody knows, except me, just where things were planted last year."
"And is that important?"
"Very important." Lois smiled at his simplicity. "Because many things must be changed. They must not be planted where they were last year."
"Why not?"
"They would not do so well. They have all to shift about, like Puss-in-the-corner; and it is puzzling. The peas must go where the corn or the potatoes went; and the corn must find another place, and so on."
"And you are the only one who keeps a map of the garden in your head?"
"Not in my head," said Lois, smiling. "I keep it in my drawer."
"Ah! That is being more systematic than I gave you credit for."
"But you cannot do anything with a garden if you have not system."
"Nor with anything else! But where didyoulearn that?"
"In the garden, I suppose," said Lois simply.
She talked frankly and quietly. Mr. Dillwyn could see by her manner, he thought, that she would be glad if Mrs. Wishart would come in and take him off her hands; but there was no awkwardness or ungracefulness or unreadiness. In fact, it was the grace of the girl that struck him, not her want of it. Then she was so very lovely. A quiet little figure, in her very plain dress; but the features were exceedingly fair, the clear skin was as pure as a pearl, the head with its crown of soft bright hair might have belonged to one of the Graces. More than all, was the very rare expression and air of the face. That Philip could not read; he could not decide what gave the girl her special beauty. Something in the mind or soul of her, he was sure; and he longed to get at it and find out what it was.
She is not commonplace, he said to himself, while he was talking something else to her;—but it is more than being not commonplace. She is very pure; but I have seen other pure faces. It is not that she is a Madonna; this is no creature
". . . . too bright and good For human nature's daily food."
But what "daily food" for human nature she would be! She is a lofty creature; yet she is a half-timid country girl; and I suppose she does not know much beyond her garden. Yes, probably Mrs. Caruthers was right; she would not do for Tom. Tom is not a quarter good enough for her! She is a little country girl, and she does not know much; and yet—happy will be the man to whom she will give a free kiss of those wise, sweet lips!
With these somewhat contradictory thoughts running through his mind, Mr. Dillwyn set himself seriously to entertain Lois. As she had never travelled, he told her of things he had seen—and things he had known without seeing—in his own many journeyings about the world. Presently Lois dropped her work out of her hands, forgot it, and turned upon Mr. Dillwyn a pair of eager, intelligent eyes, which it was a pleasure to talk to. He became absorbed in his turn, and equally; ministering to the attention and curiosity and power of imagination he had aroused. What listeners her eyes were! and how quick to receive and keen to pass judgement was the intelligence behind them. It surprised him; however, its responses were mainly given through the eyes. In vain he tried to get a fair share of words from her too; sought to draw her out. Lois was not afraid to speak; and yet, for sheer modesty and simpleness, that supposed her words incapable of giving pleasure and would not speak them as a matter of conventionality, she said very few. At last Philip made a determined effort to draw her out.
"I have told you now about my home," he said. "What is yours like?" And his manner said, I am going to stop, and you are going to begin.
"There is nothing striking about it, I think," said Lois.
"Perhaps you think so, just because it is familiar to you."
"No, it is because there is really not much to tell about it. There are just level farm fields; and the river, and the Sound."
"The river?"
"The Connecticut."
"O,thatis where you are, is it? And are you near the river?"
"Not very near. About as near the river on one side as we are to theSound on the other; either of them is a mile and more away."
"You wish they were nearer?"
"No," said Lois; "I don't think I do; there is always the pleasure of going to them."
"Then you should wish them further. A mile is a short drive."
"O, we do not drive much. We walk to the shore often, and sometimes to the river."
"You like the large water so much the best?"
"I think I like it best," said Lois, laughing a little; "but we go for clams."
"Can you get them yourself?"
"Certainly! It is great fun. While you go to drive in the Park, we go to dig clams. And I think we have the best of it too, for a stand-by."
"Do tell me about the clams."
"Do you like them?"
"I suppose I do. I do not know them. What are they? the usual little soup fish?"
"I don't know about soup fish. O no! not those; they arenotthe sort Mrs. Wishart has sometimes. These are long; ours in the Sound, I mean; longish and blackish; and do not taste like the clams you have here."
"Better, I hope?"
"A great deal better. There is nothing much pleasanter than a dish of long clams that you have dug yourself. At least we think so."
"Because you have got them yourself!"
"No; but I suppose that helps."
"So you get them by digging?"
"Yes. It is funny work. The clams are at the edge of the water, where the rushes grow, in the mud. We go for them when the tide is out. Then, in the blue mud you see quantities of small holes as big as a lead pencil would make; those are the clam holes."
"And what then?"
"Then we dig for them; dig with a hoe; and you must dig very fast, or the clam will get away from you. Then, if you get pretty near him he spits at you."
"I suppose that is a harmless remonstrance."
"It may come in your face."
Mr. Dillwyn laughed a little, looking at this fair creature, who was talking to him, and finding it hard to imagine her among the rushes racing with a long clam.
"It is wet ground I suppose, where you find the clams?"
"O yes. One must take off shoes and stockings and go barefoot. But the mud is warm, and it is pleasant enough."
"The clams must be good, to reward the trouble?"
"We think it is as pleasant to get them as to eat them."
"I believe you remarked, this sport is your substitute for our CentralPark?"
"Yes, it is a sort of a substitute."
"And, in the comparison, you think you are the gainers?"
"You cannot compare the two things," said Lois; "only that both are ways of seeking pleasure."
"So you say; and I wanted your comparative estimate of the two ways."
"Central Park is new to me, you know," said Lois; "and I am very fond of riding,—driving, Mrs. Wishart says I ought to call it; the scene is like fairyland to me. But I do not think it is better fun, really, than going after clams. And the people do not seem to enjoy it a quarter as much."
"The people whom you see driving?"
"Yes. They do not look as if they were taking much pleasure. Most of them."
"Pray why should they go, if they do not find pleasure in it?"
Lois looked at her questioner.
"You can tell, better than I, Mr. Dillwyn. For the same reasons, I suppose, that they do other things."
"Pardon me,—what things do you mean?"
"I mean,allthe things they do for pleasure, or that are supposed to be for pleasure. Parties—luncheon parties, and dinners, and—" Lois hesitated.
"Supposedto be for pleasure!" Philip echoed the words. "Excuse me—but what makes you think they do not gain their end?"
"People do not look really happy," said Lois. "They do not seem to me as if they really enjoyed what they were doing."
"You are a nice observer!"
"Am I?"
"Pray, at—I forget the name—your home in the country, are the people more happily constituted?"
"Not that I know of. Not more happily constituted; but I think they live more natural lives."
"Instance!" said Philip, looking curious.
"Well," said Lois, laughing and colouring, "I do not think they do things unless they want to. They do not ask people unless they want to see them; and when theydomake a party, everybody has a good time. It is not brilliant, or splendid, or wonderful, like parties here; but yet I think it is more really what it is meant to be."
"And here you think things are not what they are meant to be?"
"Perhaps I am mistaken," said Lois modestly. "I have seen so little."
"You are not mistaken in your general view. It would be a mistake to think there are no exceptions."
"O, I do not think that."
"But it is matter of astonishment to me, how you have so soon acquired such keen discernment. Is it that you do not enjoy these occasions yourself?"
"O, I enjoy them intensely," said Lois, smiling. "Sometimes I think I am the only one of the company that does; butIenjoy them."
"By the power of what secret talisman?"
"I don't know;—being happy, I suppose," said Lois shyly.
"You are speaking seriously; and therefore you are touching the greatest question of human life. Can you say of yourself that you are trulyhappy?"
Lois met his eyes in a little wonderment at this questioning, and answered a plain "yes."
"But, to behappy, with me, means, to be independent of circumstances. I do not call himhappy, whose happiness is gone if the east wind blow, or a party miscarry, or a bank break; even though it were the bank in which his property is involved."
"Nor do I," said Lois gravely.
"And—pray forgive me for asking!—but, are you happy in this exclusive sense?"
"I have no property in a bank," said Lois, smiling again; "I have not been tried that way; but I suppose it may do as well to have no property anywhere. Yes, Mr. Dillwyn."
"But that is equal to having the philosopher's stone!" cried Dillwyn.
"What is the philosopher's stone?"
"The wise men of old time made themselves very busy in the search for some substance, or composition, which would turn other substances to gold. Looking upon gold as the source and sum of all felicity, they spent endless pains and countless time upon the search for this transmuting substance. They thought, if they could get gold enough, they would be happy. Sometimes some one of them fancied he was just upon the point of making the immortal discovery; but there he always broke down."
"They were looking in the wrong place," said Lois thoughtfully.
"Is there arightplace to look then?"
Lois smiled. It was a smile that struck Philip very much, for its calm and confident sweetness; yes, more than that; for its gladness. She was not in haste to answer; apparently she felt some difficulty.
"I do not think gold ever made anybody happy," she said at length.
"That is what moralists tell us. But, after all, Miss Lothrop, money is the means to everything else in this world."
"Not to happiness, is it?"
"Well, what is, then? They say—and perhaps you will say—that friendships and affections can do more; but I assure you, where there are not the means to stave off grinding toil or crushing poverty, affections wither; or if they do not quite wither, they bear no golden fruit of happiness. On the contrary, they offer vulnerable spots to the stings of pain."
"Money can do a great deal," said Lois.
"What can do more?"
Lois lifted up her eyes and looked at her questioner inquiringly. Did he know no better than that?
"With money, one can do everything," he went on, though struck by her expression.
"Yes," said Lois; "and yet—all that never satisfied anybody."
"Satisfied!" cried Philip. "Satisfied is a very large word. Who is satisfied?"
Lois glanced up again, mutely.
"If I dared venture to say so—you look, Miss Lothrop, you absolutely look, as ifyouwere; and yet it is impossible."
"Why is it impossible?"
"Because it is what all the generations of men have been trying for, ever since the world began; and none of them ever found it."
"Not if they looked for it in their money bags," said Lois. "It was never found there."
"Was it ever found anywhere?"
"Why, yes!"
"Pray tell me where, that I may have it too!"
The girl's cheeks flushed; and what was very odd to Philip, her eyes, he was sure, had grown moist; but the lids fell over them, and he could not see as well as he wished. What a lovely face it was, he thought, in this its mood of stirred gravity!
"Do you ever read the Bible, Mr. Dillwyn?"
The question occasioned him a kind of revulsion. The Bible! wasthatto be brought upon his head? A confused notion of organ-song, the solemnity of a still house, a white surplice, and words in measured cadence, came over him. Nothing in that connection had ever given him the idea of being satisfied. But Lois's question—
"The Bible?" he repeated. "May I ask, why you ask?"
"I thought you did not know something that is in it."
"Very possibly. It is the business of clergymen, isn't it, to tell us what is in it? That is what they are paid for. Of what are you thinking?"
"I was thinking of a person in it, mentioned in it, I mean,—who said just what you said a minute ago."
"What was that? And who was that?"
"It was a poor woman who once held a long talk with the Lord Jesus as he was resting beside a well. She had come to draw water, and Jesus asked her for some; and then he told her that whoever drank of that water would thirst again—as she knew; but whoever should drink of the water thathewould give, should never thirst. I was telling you of that water, Mr. Dillwyn. And the woman answered just what you answered—'Give me this water, that I thirst not, neither come hither to draw.'"
"Did she get it?"
"I think she did."
"You mean, something that satisfied her, and would satisfy me?"
"It satisfies every one who drinks of it," said Lois.
"But you know, I do not in the least understand you."
The girl rose up and fetched a Bible which lay upon a distant table. Philip looked at the book as she brought it near; no volume of Mrs. Wishart's, he was sure. Lois had had her own Bible with her in the drawing-room. She must be one of the devout kind. He was sorry. He believed they were a narrow and prejudiced sort of people, given to laying down the law and erecting barricades across other people's paths. He was sorry this fair girl was one of them. But she was a lovely specimen. Could she unlearn these ways, perhaps? But now, what was she going to bring forth to him out of the Bible? He watched the fingers that turned the leaves; pretty fingers enough, and delicate, but not very white. Gardening probably was not conducive to the blanching of a lady's hand. It was a pity. She found her place so soon that he had little time to think his regrets.
"You allowed that nobody is satisfied, Mr. Dillwyn," said Lois then."See if you understand this."
"'Ho, every one that thirsteth, come ye to the waters, and he that hath no money: come ye, buy and eat; yea, come, buy wine and milk without money, and without price. Wherefore do ye spend money for that which is not bread? and your labour for that which satisfieth not? hearken diligently unto me, and eat ye that which is good, and let your soul delight itself in fatness.'"
Lois closed her book.
"Who says that?" Philip inquired.
"God himself, by his messenger."
"And to whom?"
"I think, just now, the words come to you, Mr. Dillwyn." Lois said this with a manner and look of such simplicity, that Philip was not even reminded of the class of monitors he had in his mind assigned her with. It was absolute simple matter of fact; she meant business.
"May I look at it?" he said.
She found the page again, and he considered it. Then as he gave it back, remarked,
"This does not tell me yetwhatthis satisfying food is?"
"No, that you can know only by experience."
"How is the experience to be obtained?"
Again Lois found the words in her book and showed them to him. "'Whosoever drinketh of the waterthat I shall give him'—and again, above, 'If thou knewest the gift of God, and who it is that saith to thee, Give me to drink, thou wouldest have asked of him, andhe would have given theeliving water.' Christ gives it, and he must be asked for it."
"And then—?" said Philip.
"Then you would besatisfied."
"You think it?"
"I know it."
"It takes a great deal to satisfy a man!"
"Not more than it does for a woman."
"And you are satisfied?" he asked searchingly.
But Lois smiled as she gave her answer; and it was an odd and very inconsistent thing that Philip should be disposed to quarrel with her for that smile. I think he wished she werenotsatisfied. It was very absurd, but he did not reason about it; he only felt annoyed.
"Well, Miss Lothrop," he said as he rose, "I shall never forget this conversation. I am very glad no one came in to interrupt it."
Lois had no phrases of society ready, and replied nothing.
Mr. Dillwyn walked away from Mrs. Wishart's in a discontented mood, which was not usual with him. He felt almost annoyed with something; yet did not quite know what, and he did not stop to analyze the feeling. He walked away, wondering at himself for being so discomposed, and pondering with sufficient distinctness one or two questions which stood out from the discomposure.
He was a man who had gone through all the usual routine of education and experience common to those who belong to the upper class of society, and can boast of a good name and family. He had lived his college life; he had travelled; he knew the principal cities of his own country, and many in other lands, with sufficient familiarity. Speaking generally, he had seen everything, and knew everybody. He had ceased to be surprised at anything, or to expect much from the world beyond what his own efforts and talents could procure him. His connections and associations had been always with good society and with the old and established portions of it; but he had come into possession of his property not so very long ago, and the pleasure of that was not yet worn off. He was a man who thought himself happy, and certainly possessed a very high place in the esteem of those who knew him; being educated, travelled, clever, and of noble character, and withal rich. It was the oddest thing for Philip to walk as he walked now, musingly, with measured steps, and eyes bent on the ground. There was a most strange sense of uneasiness upon him.
The image of Lois busied him constantly. It was such a lovely image. But he had seen hundreds of handsomer women, he told himself. Had he? Yes, he thought so. Yet not one, not one of them all, had made as much impression upon him. It was inconvenient; and why was it inconvenient? Something about her bewitched him. Yes, he had seen handsomer women; but more or less they were all of a certain pattern; not alike in feature, or name, or place, or style, yet nevertheless all belonging to the general sisterhood of what is called the world. And this girl was different. How different? She was uneducated, butthatcould not give a charm; though Philip thereby reflected that there was a certain charm in variety, and this made variety. She was unaccustomed to the great world and its ways; there could be no charm in that, for he liked the utmost elegance of the best breeding. Here he fetched himself up again. Lois was not in the least ill-bred. Nothing of the kind. She was utterly and truly refined, in every look and word and movement showing that she was so. Yet she had no "manner," as Mrs. Caruthers would have expressed it. No, she had not. She had no trained and inevitable way of speaking and looking; her way was her own, and sprang naturally from the truth of her thought or feeling at the moment. Therefore it could never be counted upon, and gave one the constant pleasure of surprises. Yes, Philip concluded that this was one point of interest about her. She had not learned how to hide herself, and the manner of her revelations was a continual refreshing variety, inasmuch as what she had to reveal was only fair and delicate and true. But what made the girl so provokingly happy? so secure in her contentment? Mr. Dillwyn thought himself a happy man; content with himself and with life; yet life had reached something too like a dead level, and himself, he was conscious, led a purposeless sort of existence. What purpose indeed was there to live for? But this little girl—Philip recalled the bright, soft, clear expression of eye with which she had looked at him; the very sweet curves of happy consciousness about her lips; the confident bearing with which she had spoken, as one who had found a treasure which, as she said, satisfied her. But it cannot! said Philip to himself. It is that she is pure and sweet, and takes happiness like a baby, sucking in what seems to her the pure milk of existence. It is true, the remembered expression of Lois's features did not quite agree with this explanation; pure and sweet, no doubt, but also grave and high, and sometimes evidencing a keen intellectual perception and wisdom. Not just like a baby; and he found he could not dismiss the matter so. What made her, then, so happy? Philip could not remember ever seeing a grown person who seemed so happy; whose happiness seemed to rest on such a steady foundation. Can she be in love? thought Dillwyn; and the idea gave him a most unreasonable thrill of displeasure. For a moment only; then his reason told him that the look in Lois's face was not like that. It was not the brilliance of ecstasy; it was the sunshine of deep and fixed content. Why in the world should Mr. Dillwyn wish that Lois were not so content? so beyond what he or anybody could give her? And having got to this point, Mr. Dillwyn pulled himself up again. What business was it of his, the particular spring of happiness she had found to drink of? and if it quenched her thirst, as she said it did, why should he be anything but glad of it? Why, even if Lois were happy in some new-found human treasure, should it move him, Philip Dillwyn, with discomfort? Was it possible that he too could be following in those steps of Tom Caruthers, from which Tom's mother was at such pains to divert her son? Philip began to see where he stood. Could it be?—and what if?
He studied the question now with a clear view of its bearings. He had got out of a fog. Lois was all he had thought of her. Would she do for a wife for him? Uneducated—inexperienced—not in accord with the habits of the world—accustomed to very different habits and society—with no family to give weight to her name and honour to his choice,—all that Philip pondered; and, on the other side, the loveliness, the freshness, the intellect, the character, and the refinement, which were undoubted. He pondered and pondered. A girl who was nobody, and whom society would look upon as an intruder; a girl who had had no advantages of education—how she could express herself so well and so intelligently Philip could not conceive, but the fact was there; Lois had had no education beyond the most simple training of a school in the country;—would it do? He turned it all over and over, and shook his head. It would be too daring an experiment; it would not be wise; it would not do; he must give it up, all thought of such a thing; and well that he had come to handle the question so early, as else he might—he—might have got so entangled that he could not save himself. Poor Tom! But Philip had no mother to interpose to savehim;and his sister was not at hand. He went thinking about all this the whole way back to his hotel; thinking, and shaking his head at it. No, this kind of thing was for a boy to do, not for a man who knew the world. And yet, the image of Lois worried him.
I believe, he said to himself, I had better not see the little witch again.
Meanwhile he was not going to have much opportunity. Mrs. Wishart came home a little while after Philip had gone. Lois was stitching by the last fading light.
"Do stop, my dear! you will put your eyes out. Stop, and let us have tea. Has anybody been here?"
"Mr. Dillwyn came. He went away hardly a quarter of an hour ago."
"Mr. Dillwyn! Sorry I missed him. But he will come again. I met TomCaruthers; he is mourning about this going with his mother to Florida."
"What are they going for?" asked Lois.
"To escape the March winds, he says."
"Who? Mr. Caruthers? He does not look delicate."
Mrs. Wishart laughed. "Not very! And his mother don't either, does she? But, my dear, people are weak in different spots; it isn't always in their lungs."
"Are there no March winds in Florida?"
"Not where they are going. It is all sunshine and oranges—and orange blossoms. But Tom is not delighted with the prospect. What do you think of that young man?"
"He is a very handsome man."
"Is he not? But I did not mean that. Of course you have eyes. I want to know whether you have judgment."
"I have not seen much of Mr. Caruthers to judge by."
"No. Take what you have seen and make the most of it."
"I don't think I have judgment," said Lois. "About people, I mean, and men especially. I am not accustomed to New York people, besides."
"Are they different from Shampuashuh people?"
"O, very."
"How?"
"Miss Caruthers asked me the same thing," said Lois, smiling. "I suppose at bottom all people are alike; indeed, I know they are. But in the country I think they show out more."
"Less disguise about them?"
"I think so."
"My dear, are we such a set of masqueraders in your eyes?"
"No," said Lois; "I did not mean that."
"What do you think of Philip Dillwyn? Comare him with young Caruthers."
"I cannot," said Lois. "Mr. Dillwyn strikes me as a man who knows everything there is in all the world."
"And Tom, you think, does not?"
"Not so much," said, Lois hesitating; "at least he does not impress me so."
"You are more impressed with Mr. Dillwyn?"
"In what way?" said Lois simply. "I am impressed with the sense of my own ignorance. I should be oppressed by it, if it was my fault."
"Now you speak like a sensible girl, as you are. Lois, men do not care about women knowing much."
"Sensible men must."
"They are precisely the ones who do not. It is odd enough, but it is a fact. But go on; which of these two do you like best?"
"I have seen most of Mr. Caruthers, you know. But, Mrs. Wishart, sensible menmustlike sense in other people."
"Yes, my dear; they do; unless when they want to marry the people; and then their choice very often lights upon a fool. I have seen it over and over and over again; the clever one of a family is passed by, and a silly sister is the one chosen."
"Why?"
"A pink and white skin, or a pair of black eyebrows, or perhaps some soft blue eyes."
"But people cannot live upon a pair of black eyebrows," said Lois.
"They find that out afterwards."
"Mr. Dillwyn talks as if he liked sense," said Lois. "I mean, he talks about sensible things."
"Do you mean that Tom don't, my dear?"
A slight colour rose on the cheek Mrs. Wishart was looking at; and Lois said somewhat hastily that she was not comparing.
"I shall try to find out what Tom talks to you about, when he comes back from Florida. I shall scold him if he indulges in nonsense."
"It will be neither sense nor nonsense. I shall be gone long before then."
"Gone whither?"
"Home—to Shampuashuh. I have been wanting to speak to you about it,Mrs. Wishart. I must go in a very few days."
"Nonsense! I shall not let you. I cannot get along without you. They don't want you at home, Lois."
"The garden does. And the dairy work will be more now in a week or two; there will be more milk to take care of, and Madge will want help."
"Dairy work! Lois, you must not do dairy work. You will spoil your hands."
Lois laughed. "Somebody's hands must do it. But Madge takes care of the dairy. My hands see to the garden."
"Is it necessary?"
"Why, yes, certainly, if we would have butter or vegetables; and you would not counsel us to do without them. The two make half the living of the family."
"And you really cannot afford a servant?"
"No, nor want one," said Lois. "There are three of us, and so we get along nicely."
"Apropos;—My dear, I am sorry that it is so, but must is must. What I wanted to say to you is, that it is not necessary to tell all this to other people."
Lois looked up, surprised. "I have told no one but you, Mrs. Wishart. O yes! I did speak to Mr. Dillwyn about it, I believe."
"Yes. Well, there is no occasion, my dear. It is just as well not."
"Is itbetternot? What is the harm? Everybody at Shampuashuh knows it."
"Nobody knows it here; and there is no reason why they should. I meant to tell you this before."
"I think I have told nobody but Mr. Dillwyn."
"He is safe. I only speak for the future, my dear."
"I don't understand yet," said Lois, half laughing. "Mrs. Wishart, we are not ashamed of it."
"Certainly not, my dear; you have no occasion."
"Then whyshouldwe be ashamed of it?" Lois persisted.
"My dear, there is nothing to be ashamed of. Do not think I mean that.Only, people here would not understand it."
"How could they _mis_understand it?"
"You do not know the world, Lois. People have peculiar ways of looking at things; and they put their own interpretation on things; and of course they often make great blunders. And so it is just as well to keep your own private affairs to yourself, and not give them the opportunity of blundering."
Lois was silent a little while.
"You mean," she said then,—"you think, that some of these people I have been seeing here, would think less of me, if they knew how we do at home?"
"They might, my dear. People are just stupid enough for that."
"Then it seems to me I ought to let them know," Lois said, half laughing again. "I do not like to be taken for what I am not; and I do not want to have anybody's good opinion on false grounds." Her colour rose a bit at the same time.
"My dear, it is nobody's business. And anybody that once knew you would judge you for yourself, and not upon any adventitious circumstances. They cannot, in my opinion, think of you too highly."
"I think it is better they should know at once that I am a poor girl," said Lois. However, she reflected privately that it did not matter, as she was going away so soon. And she remembered also that Mr. Dillwyn had not seemed to think any the less of her for what she had told him. Did Tom Caruthers know?
"But, Lois, my dear, about your going— There is no garden work to be done yet. It is March."
"It will soon be April. And the ground must be got ready, and potatoes must go in, and peas."
"Surely somebody else can stick in potatoes and peas."
"They would not know where to put them."
"Does it matter where?"
"To be sure it does!" said Lois, amused. "They must not go where they were last year."
"Why not?"
"I don't know! It seems that every plant wants a particular sort of food, and gets it, if it can; and so, the place where it grows is more or less impoverished, and would have less to give it another year. But a different sort of plant requiring a different sort of food, would be all right in that place."
"Food?" said Mrs. Wishart. "Do you mean manure? you can have that put in."
"No, I do not mean that. I mean something the plant gets from the soil itself."
"I do not understand! Well, my dear, write them word where the peas must go."
Lois laughed again.
"I hardly know myself, till I have studied the map," she said. "I mean, the map of the garden. It is a more difficult matter than you can guess, to arrange all the new order every spring; all has to be changed; and upon where the peas go depends, perhaps, where the cabbages go, and the corn, and the tomatoes, and everything else. It is a matter for study."
"Can't somebody else do it for you?" Mrs. Wishart asked compassionately.
"There is no one else. We have just our three selves; and all that is done we do; and the garden is under my management."
"Well, my dear, you are wonderful women; that is all I have to say. But, Lois, you must pay me a visit by and by in the summer time; I must have that; I shall go to the Isles of Shoals for a while, and I am going to have you there."
"If I can be spared from home, dear Mrs. Wishart, it would be delightful!"
It was a few days later, but March yet, and a keen wind blowing from the sea. A raw day out of doors; so much the more comfortable seemed the good fire, and swept-up hearth, and gentle warmth filling the farmhouse kitchen. The farmhouse was not very large, neither by consequence was the kitchen; however, it was more than ordinarily pleasant to look at, because it was not a servants' room; and so was furnished not only for the work, but also for the habitation of the family, who made it in winter almost exclusively their abiding-place. The floor was covered with a thick, gay rag carpet; a settee sofa looked inviting with its bright chintz hangings; rocking chairs, well cushioned, were in number and variety; and a basket of work here, and a pretty lamp there, spoke of ease and quiet occupation. One person only sat there, in the best easy-chair, at the hearth corner; beside her a little table with a large book upon it and a roll of knitting. She was not reading nor working just now; waiting, perhaps, or thinking, with hands folded in her lap. By the look of the hands they had done many a job of hard work in their day; by the look of the face and air of the person, one could see that the hard work was over. The hands were bony, thin, enlarged at the joints, so as age and long rough usage make them, but quiet hands now; and the face was steady and calm, with no haste or restlessness upon it any more, if ever there had been, but a very sweet and gracious repose. It was a hard-featured countenance; it had never been handsome; only the beauty of sense and character it had, and the dignity of a well-lived life. Something more too; some thing of a more noble calm than even the fairest retrospect can give; a more restful repose than comes of mere cessation from labour; a deeper content than has its ground in the actual present. She was a most reverent person, to look at. Just now she was waiting for something, and listening; for her ear caught the sound of a door, and then the tread of swift feet coming down the stair, and then Lois entered upon the scene; evidently fresh from her journey. She had been to her room to lay by her wrappings and change her dress; she was in a dark stuff gown now, with an enveloping white apron. She came up and kissed once more the face which had watched her entrance.
"You've been gone a good while, Lois!"
"Yes, grandma. Too long, did you think?"
"I don' know, child. That depends on what you stayed for."
"Does it? Grandma, I don't know what I stayed for. I suppose because it was pleasant."
"Pleasanter than here?"
"Grandma, I haven't been home long enough to know. It all looks and feels so strange to me as you cannot think!"
"What looks strange?"
"Everything! The house, and the place, and the furniture—I have been living in such a different world till my eyes have grown unaccustomed. You can't think how odd it is."
"What sort of a world have you been living in, Lois? Your letters didn't tell." The old lady spoke with a certain serious doubtfulness, looking at the girl by her side.
"Didn't they?" Lois returned. "I suppose I did not give you the impression because I had it not myself. I had got accustomed to that, you see; and I did not realize how strange it was. I just took it as if I had always lived in it."
"What?"
"O grandma, I can never tell you so that you can understand! It was like living in the Arabian Nights."
"I don't believe in no Arabian Nights."
"And yet they were there, you see. Houses so beautiful, and filled with such beautiful things; and you know, grandmother, I like things to be pretty;—and then, the ease, I suppose. Mrs. Wishart's servants go about almost like fairies; they are hardly seen or heard, but the work is done. And you never have to think about it; you go out, and come home to find dinner ready, and capital dinners too; and you sit reading or talking, and do not know how time goes till it is tea-time, and then there comes the tea; and so it is in-doors and out of doors. All that is quite pleasant."
"And you are sorry to be home again?"
"No, indeed, I am glad. I enjoyed all I have been telling you about, but I think I enjoyed it quite long enough. It is time for me to be here. Is the frost well out of the ground yet?"
"Mr. Bince has been ploughin'."
"Has he? I'm glad. Then I'll put in some peas to-morrow. O yes! I am glad to be home, grandma." Her hand nestled in one of those worn, bony ones affectionately.
"Could you live just right there, Lois?"
"I tried, grandma."
"Did all that help you?"
"I don't know that it hindered. It might not be good for always; but I was there only for a little while, and I just took the pleasure of it."
"Seems to me, you was there a pretty long spell to be called 'a little while.' Ain't it a dangerous kind o' pleasure, Lois? Didn't you never get tempted?"
"Tempted to what, grandma?"
"I don' know! To want to live easy."
"Would that be wrong?" said Lois, putting her soft cheek alongside the withered one, so that her wavy hair brushed it caressingly. Perhaps it was unconscious bribery. But Mrs. Armadale was never bribed.
"It wouldn't be right, Lois, if it made you want to get out o' your duties."
"I think it didn't, grandma. I'm all ready for them. And your dinner is the first thing. Madge and Charity—you say they are gone to New Haven?"
"Charity's tooth tormented her so, and Madge wanted to get a bonnet; and they thought they'd make one job of it. They didn't know you was comin' to-day, and they thought they'd just hit it to go before you come. They won't be back early, nother."
"What have they left for your dinner?" said Lois, going to rummage."Grandma, here's nothing at all!"
"An egg'll do, dear. They didn't calkilate for you."
"An egg will do for me," said Lois, laughing; "but there's only a crust of bread."
"Madge calkilated to make tea biscuits after she come home."
"Then I'll do that now."
Lois stripped up the sleeves from her shapely arms, and presently was very busy at the great kitchen table, with the board before her covered with white cakes, and the cutter and rolling pin still at work producing more. Then the fire was made up, and the tin baker set in front of the blaze, charged with a panful for baking. Lois stripped down her sleeves and set the table, cut ham and fried it, fried eggs, and soon sat opposite Mrs. Armadale pouring her out a cup of tea.
"This is cosy!" she exclaimed. "It is nice to have you all alone for the first, grandma. What's the news?"