"I want Mrs. Wishart to consider of that."
"I can't consider it!" said the lady. "I suppose it is intended that there should be poor people always, to give us something to do."
"Then let us do it."
"How?"
"I am not certain; but I make a suggestion. Suppose all the ladies of this city devoted their diamonds to this purpose. Then any number of dwelling-houses could be put up; separate, but so arranged as to be warmed by steam from a general centre, at a merely nominal cost for each one; well ventilated and comfortable; so putting an end to the enormity of tenement houses. Then a commission might be established to look after the rights of the poor; to see that they got proper wages, were not cheated, and that all should have work who wanted it. So much might be done."
"With no end of money."
"I proposed to take the diamonds of the city, you know."
"And why just the diamonds?" inquired Mrs. Wishart. "Why don't you speak of some of the indulgences of the men? Take the horses—or the wines—"
"I am speaking to a lady," said Dillwyn, smiling. "When I have a man to apply to, I will make my application accordingly."
"Ask him for his tobacco?" said Mrs. Wishart.
"Certainly for his tobacco. There is as much money spent in this city for tobacco as there is for bread."
Madge exclaimed in incredulous astonishment; and Lois asked if the diamonds of the city would amount to very much.
"Yes, Miss Lois. American ladies are very fond of diamonds; and it is a common thing for one of them to have from ten thousand to twenty thousand or thirty thousand dollars' worth of them as part of the adornment of her pretty person at one time."
"Twenty thousand dollars' worth of diamonds on at once!" cried Madge."I call that wicked!"
"Why?" asked Mr. Dillwyn, smiling.
"There's no wickedness in it," said Mrs. Wishart. "How should it be wicked? You put on a flower; and another, who can afford it, puts on a diamond. What's the difference?"
"My flower does not cost anybody anything," said Madge.
"What do my diamonds cost anybody?" returned Mrs. Wishart.
Madge was silent, though not because she had nothing to say; and at this precise moment the door opened, and visitors were ushered in.
There entered upon the scene, that is, a little lady of very gay and airy manner; whose airiness, however, was thoroughly well bred. She was accompanied by a tall, pleasant-looking man, of somewhat dreamy aspect; and they were named to Lois and Madge as Mrs. and Mr. Burrage. To Mr. Dillwyn they were not named; and the greet ing in that quarter was familiar; the lady giving him a nod, and the gentleman an easy "Good evening." The lady's attention came round to him again as soon as she was seated.
"Why, Philip, I did not expect to find you. What are you doing here?"
"I was making toast a little while ago."
"I did not know that was one of your accomplishments."
"They said I did it well. I have picked up a good deal of cooking in the course of my travels."
"In what part of the world did you learn to make toast?" asked the lady, while a pair of lively eyes seemed to take note rapidly of all that was in the room; rapidly but carefully, Lois thought. She was glad she herself was hidden in the shadowy sofa corner.
"I believe that is always learned in a cold country, where people have fire," Mr. Dillwyn answered the question.
"These people who travel all over get to be insufferable!" the little lady went on, turning to Mrs. Wishart; "they think they know everything; and they are not a bit wiser than the rest of us. You were not at the De Large's luncheon,—what a pity! I know; your cold shut you up. You must take care of that cold. Well, you lost something. This is the seventh entertainment that has been given to that English party; and every one of them has exceeded the others. There is nothing left for the eighth. Nobody will dare give an eighth. One is fairly tired with the struggle of magnificence. It's the battle of the giants over again, with a difference."
"It is not a battle with attempt to destroy," said her husband.
"Yes, it is—to destroy competition. I have been at every one of the seven but one—and I am absolutely tired with splendour. But there is really nothing left for any one else to do. I don't see how one is to go any further—without the lamp of Aladdin."
"A return to simplicity would be grateful," remarked Mrs. Wishart. "And as new as anything else could be."
"Simplicity! O, my dear Mrs. Wishart!—don't talk of simplicity. We don't want simplicity. We have got past that. Simplicity is the dream of children and country folks; and it means, eating your meat with your fingers."
"It's the sweetest way of all," said Dillwyn.
"Where did you discover that? It must have been among savages.Children—country folks—andsavages, I ought to have said."
"Orientals are not savages. On the contrary, very far exceeding in politeness any western nation I know of."
"You would set a table, then, with napkins and fingers! Or are the napkins not essential?"
"C'est selon," said Dillwyn. "In a strawberry bed, or under a cherry tree, I should vote them a nuisance. At an Asiatic grandee's table you would have them embroidered and perfumed; and one for your lap and another for your lips."
"Evidently they are long past the stage of simplicity. Talking of napkins we had them embroidered—and exquisitely—Japanese work; at the De Larges'. Mine had a peacock in one corner; or I don't know if it was a peacock; it was a gay-feathered bird—"
"A peacock has a tail," suggested Mr. Dillwyn.
"Well, I don't know whether it had a tail, but it was most exquisite; in blue and red and gold; I never saw anything prettier. And at every plate were such exquisite gifts! really elegant, you know. Flowers are all very well; but when it comes to jewellery, I think it is a little beyond good taste. Everybody can't do it, you know; and it is rather embarrassing tonous autres."
"Simplicityhasits advantages," observed Mr. Dillwyn.
"Nonsense, Philip! You are as artificial a man as any one I know."
"In what sense?" asked Mr. Dillwyn calmly. "You are bound to explain, for the sake of my character, that I do not wear false heels to my boots."
"Don't be ridiculous! You have no need to wear false heels.Artneed not befalse, need it?"
"True art never is," said Mr. Dillwyn, amid some laughter.
"Well, artifice, then?"
"Artifice, I am afraid, is of another family, and not allied to truth."
"Well, everybody that knows you knows you are true; but they know, too, that if ever there was a fastidious man, it is you; and a man that wants everything at its last pitch of refinement."
"Which desirable stage I should say the luncheon you were describing had not reached."
"You don't know. I had not told you the half. Fancy!—the ice floated in our glasses in the form of pond lilies; as pretty as possible, with broad leaves and buds."
"How did they get it in such shapes?" asked Madge, with her eyes a trifle wider open than was usual with them.
"O, froze it in moulds, of course. But you might have fancied the fairies had carved it. Then, Mrs. Wishart, there was an arrangement of glasses over the gas burners, which produced the most silver sounds of music you ever heard; no chime, you know, of course; but a most peculiar, sweet, mysterious succession of musical breathings. Add to that, by means of some invisible vaporizers, the whole air was filled with sweetness; now it was orange flowers, and now it was roses, and then again it would be heliotrope or violets; I never saw anything so refined and so exquisite in my life. Waves of sweetness, rising and falling, coming and going, and changing; it was perfect."
The little lady delivered herself of this description with much animation, accompanying the latter part of it with a soft waving of her hand; which altogether overcame Philip's gravity, and he burst into a laugh, in which Mr. Burrage presently joined him; and Lois and Madge found it impossible not to follow.
"What's the matter, Philip?" the lady asked.
"I am reminded of an old gentleman I once saw at Gratz; he was copying the Madonna della Seggia in a mosaic made with the different-coloured wax heads of matches."
"He must have been out of his head."
"That was the conclusion I came to."
"Pray what brought him to your remembrance just then?"
"I was thinking of the different ways people take in the search after happiness."
"And one worth as much as another, I suppose you mean? That is a matter of taste. Mrs. Wishart, I seeyourhappiness is cared for, in having such charming friends with you. O, by the way!—talking of seeing,—haveyou seen Dulles & Grant's new Persian rugs and carpets?"
"I have been hardly anywhere. I wanted to take Madge to see Brett'sCollection of Paintings; but I have been unequal to any exertion."
"Well, the first time you go anywhere, go to Dulles & Grant's. Take her to see those. Pictures are common; but these Turkish rugs and things are not. They are the most exquisite, the most odd, the most delicious things you ever saw. I have been wanting to ruin myself with them ever since I saw them. It's high art, really. Those Orientals are wonderful people! There is one rug—it is as large as this floor, nearly,—well, it is covered with medallions in old gold, set in a wild, irregular design of all sorts of Cashmere shawl colours—thrown about anyhow; and yet the effect is rich beyond description; simple, too. Another,—O, that is very rare; it is a rare Keelum carpet; let me see if I can describe it. The ground is a full bright red. Over this run palm leaves and little bits of ruby and maroon and gold mosaic; and between the palm leaves come great ovals of olive mixed with black, blue, and yellow; shading off into them. Ineversaw anything I wanted so much."
"What price?"
"O, they are all prices. The Keelum carpet is only fifteen hundred—but my husband says it is too much. Then another Persian carpet has a centre of red and white. Round this a border of palm leaves. Round these another border of deliciously mixed up warm colours; warm and rich. Then another border of palms; and then the rest of the carpet is in blended shades of dark dull red and pink, with olive flowers thrown over it. O, I can't tell you the half. You must go and see. They have immensely wide borders, all of them; and great thick, soft piles."
"Have you been to Brett's Collection?"
"Yes."
"What is there?"
"The usual thing. O, but I haven't told you what I have come here for to-night."
"I thought it was, to see me."
"Yes, but not for pleasure, this time," said the lively lady, laughing. "I had business—I really do have business sometimes. I came this evening, because I wanted to see you when I could have a chance to explain myself. Mrs. Wishart, I want you to take my place. They have made me first directress of the Forlorn Children's Home."
"Does the epithet apply to the place? or to the children?" Mr. Dillwyn asked.
"Now Icannotundertake the office," Mrs. Burrage went on without heeding him. "My hands are as full as they can hold, and my head fuller. You must take it, Mrs. Wishart. You are just the person."
"I?" said Mrs. Wishart, with no delighted expression. "What are the duties?"
"O, just oversight, you know; keeping things straight. Everybody needs to be kept up to the mark. I cannot, for our Reading Club meets just at the time when I ought to be up at the Home."
The ladies went into a closer discussion of the subject in its various bearings; and Mr. Dillwyn and Madge returned to their chess play. Lois lay watching and thinking. Mr. Burrage looked on at the chess-board, and made remarks on the game languidly. By and by the talk of the two ladies ceased, and the head of Mrs. Burrage came round, and she also studied the chess-players. Her face was observant and critical, Lois thought; oddly observant and thoughtful.
"Where did you get such charming friends to stay with you, Mrs.Wishart? You are to be envied."
Mrs. Wishart explained, how Lois had been ill, and had come to get well under her care.
"You must bring them to see me. Will you? Are they fond of music? Bring them to my next musical evening."
And then she rose; but before taking leave she tripped across to Lois's couch and came and stood quite close to her, looking at her for a moment in what seemed to the girl rather an odd silence.
"You aren't equal to playing chess yet?" was her equally odd abrupt question. Lois's smile showed some amusement.
"My brother is such an idle fellow, he has got nothing better to do than to amuse sick people. It's charity to employ him. And when you are able to come out, if you'll come to me, you shall hear some good music. Good-bye!"
Her brother! thought Lois as she went off. Mr. Dillwyn,herbrother!I don't believe she likes Madge and me to know him.
Meanwhile Mr. and Mrs. Chauncey Burrage drove away in silence for a few minutes; then the lady broke out.
"There's mischief there, Chauncey!"
"What mischief?" the gentleman asked innocently.
"Those girls."
"Very handsome girls. At least the one that was visible."
"The other's worse.Isaw her. The one you saw is handsome; but the other is peculiar. She is rare. Maybe not just so handsome, but more refined; andpeculiar. I don't know just what it is in her; but she fascinated me. Masses of auburn hair—not just auburn—more of a golden tint than brown—with a goldreflet, you know, that is so lovely; and a face—"
"Well, what sort of a face?" asked Mr. Burrage, as his spouse paused.
"Something between a baby and an angel, and yet with a sort of sybil look of wisdom. I believe she put one of Domenichino's sybils into my head; there's that kind of complexion—"
"My dear," said the gentleman, laughing, "you could not tell what complexion she was of. She was in a shady corner."
"I was quite near her. Now that sort of thing might just catch Philip."
"Well," said the gentleman, "you cannot help that."
"I don't know if I can or no!"
"Why should you want to help it, after all?"
"Why? I don't want Philip to make a mis-match."
"Why should it be a mis-match?"
"Philip has got too much money to marry a girl with nothing."
Mr. Burrage laughed. His wife demanded to know what he was laughing at? and he said "the logic of her arithmetic."
"You men have no more logic in action, than we women have in speculation. I am logical the other way."
"That is too involved for me to follow. But it occurs to me to ask, Why should there be any match in the case here?"
"That's so like a man! Why shouldn't there? Take a man like my brother, who don't know what to do with himself; a man whose eye and ear are refined till he judges everything according to a standard of beauty;—and give him a girl like that to look at! I said she reminded me of one of Domenichino's sybils—but it isn't that. I'll tell you what it is. She is like one of Fra Angelico's angels. Fancy Philip set down opposite to one of Fra Angelico's angels in flesh and blood!"
"Can a man do better than marry an angel?"
"Yes! so long as he is not an angel himself, and don't live inParadise."
"They do not marry in Paradise," said Mr. Burrage dryly. "But why a fellow may not get as near a paradisaical condition as he can, with the drawback of marriage, and in this mundane sphere,—I do not see."
"Men never see anything till afterwards. I don't know anything about this girl, Chauncey, except her face. But it is just the way with men, to fall in love with a face. I do not know what she is, only she is nobody; and Philip ought to marry somebody. I know where they are from. She has no money, and she has no family; she has of course no breeding; she has probably no education, to fit her for being his wife. Philip ought to have the very reverse of all that. Or else he ought not to marry at all, and let his money come to little Phil Chauncey."
"What are you going to do about it?" asked the gentleman, seeming amused.
But Mrs. Burrage made no answer, and the rest of the drive, long as it was, was rather stupid.
The next day Mr. Dillwyn came to take Madge to see Brett's Collection of Paintings. Mrs. Wishart declared herself not yet up to it. Madge came home in a great state of delight.
"It was so nice!" she explained to her sister; "just as nice as it could be. Mr. Dillwyn was so pleasant; and told me everything and about everything; about the pictures, and the masters; I shouldn't have known what anything meant, but he explained it all. And it was such fun to see the people."
"The people!" said Lois.
"Yes. There were a great many people; almost a crowd; and itdidamuse me to watch them."
"I thought you went to see the paintings."
"Well, I saw the paintings; and I heard more about them than I can ever remember."
"What was there?"
"O, I can't tell you. Landscapes and landscapes; and then Holy Families; and saints in misery, of one sort or another; and battle-pieces, but those were such confusion that all I could make out was horses on their hind-legs; and portraits. I think it is nonsense for people to try to paint battles; they can't do it; and, besides, as far as the fighting goes, one fight is just like another. Mr. Dillwyn told me of a travelling showman, in Germany, who travelled about with the panorama of a battle; and every year he gave it a new name, the name of the last battle that was in men's mouths; and all he had to do was to change the uniforms, he said. He had a pot of green paint for the Prussians, and red for the English, and blue, I believe, for the French, and so on; and it did just as well."
"What did you see that you liked best?"
"I'll tell you. It was a little picture of kittens, in and out of a basket. Mr. Dillwyn didn't care about it; but I thought it was the prettiest thing there. Mrs. Burrage was there."
"Was she?"
"And Mr. Dillwyn does know more than ever anybody else in the world, I think. O, he was so nice, Lois! so nice and kind. I wouldn't have given a pin to be there, if it hadn't been for him. He wouldn't let me get tired; and he made everything amusing; and O, I could have sat there till now and watched the people."
"The people! If the pictures were good, I don't see how you could have eyes for the people."
"'The proper study of mankind isman,' my dear; and I like them alive better than painted. It was fun to see the dresses; and then the ways. How some people tried to be interested—"
"Like you?"
"What do you mean? Iwasinterested; and some talked and flirted, and some stared. I watched every new set that came in. Mr. DilIwyn says he will come and take us to the Philarmonic, as soon as the performances begin."
"Madge, it isbetterfor us to go with Mrs. Wishart."
"She may go too, if she likes."
"And it isbetterfor us not to go with Mr. DilIwyn, more than we can help."
"I won't," said Madge. "I can't help going with him whenever he asks me, and I am not going any other time."
"What did Mrs. Burrage say to you?"
"Hm!— Not much. I caught her looking at me more than once. She said she would have a musical party next week, and we must come; and she asked if you would be well enough."
"I hope I shall not."
"That's nonsense. Mr. Dillwyn wants us to go, I know."
"That is not a reason for going."
"I think itis. He is just as good as he can be, and I like him more than anybody else I ever saw in my life. I'd like to see the thing he'd ask me, that I wouldn't do."
"Madge, Madge!"
"Hush, Lois; that's nonsense."
"Madge you trouble me very much."
"And that's nonsense too."
Madge was beginning to get over the first sense of novelty and strangeness in all about her; and, as she overcame that, a feeling of delight replaced it, and grew and grew. Madge was revelling in enjoyment. She went out with Mrs. Wishart, for drives in the Park and for shopping expeditions in the city, and once or twice to make visits. She went out with Mr. Dillwyn, too, as we have seen, who took her to drive, and conducted her to galleries of pictures and museums of curiosities; and finally, and with Mrs. Wishart, to a Philharmonic rehearsal. Madge came home in a great state of exultation; though Lois was almost indignant to find that the place and the people had rivalled the performance in producing it. Lois herself was almost well enough to go, though delicate enough still to allow her the choice of staying at home. She was looking like herself again; yet a little paler in colour and more deliberate in action than her old wont; both the tokens of a want of strength which continued to be very manifest. One day Madge came home from going with Mrs. Wishart to Dulles & Grant's. I may remark that the evening at Mrs. Burrage's had not yet come off, owing to a great storm the night of the music party; but another was looming up in the distance.
"Lois," Madge delivered herself as she was taking off her wrappings, "it is a great thing to be rich!"
"One needs to be sick to know how true that is," responded Lois. "If you could guess what I would have given last summer and fall for a few crumbs of the comfort with which this house is stacked full—like hay in a barn!"
"But I am not thinking of comfort."
"I am. How I wanted everything for the sick people at Esterbrooke. Think of not being able to change their bed linen properly, nor anything like properly!"
"Of course," said Madge, "poor people do not have plenty of things. ButI was not thinking ofcomfort, when I spoke."
"Comfort is the best thing."
"Don't you like pretty things?"
"Too well, I am afraid."
"You cannot like them too well. Pretty things were meant to be liked. What else were they made for? And of all pretty things—O, those carpets and rugs! Lois, I never saw or dreamed of anything so magnificent. Ishouldlike to be rich, for once!"
"To buy a Persian carpet?"
"Yes. That and other things. Why not?"
"Madge, don't you know this was what grandmother was afraid of, when we were learning to know Mr. Dillwyn?"
"What?" said Madge defiantly.
"That we would be bewitched—or dazzled—and lose sight of better things; I think 'bewitched' is the word; all these beautiful things and this luxurious comfort—it is bewitching; and so are the fine manners and the cultivation and the delightful talk. I confess it. I feel it as much as you do; but this is just what dear grandmother wanted to protect us from."
"Whatdid she want to protect us from?" repeated Madge vehemently. "Not Persian carpets, nor luxury; we are not likely to be tempted by either of them in Shampuashuh."
"We mighthere."
"Be tempted? To what? I shall hardly be likely to go and buy a fifteen-hundred-dollar carpet. And it wascheapat that, Lois! I can live without it, besides. I haven't got so far that I can't stand on the floor, without any carpet at all, if I must. You needn't think it."
"I do not think it. Only, do not be tempted to fancy, darling, that there is any way open to you to get such things; that is all."
"Any way open to me? You mean, I might marry a rich man some day?"
"You might think you might."
"Why shouldn't I?"
"Because, dear Madge, you will not be asked. I told you why. And if you were,—Madge, you would not, youcouldnot, marry a man that was not a Christian? Grandmother made me promise I never would."
"She did not make me promise it. Lois, don't be ridiculous. I don't want to marry anybody at present; but I like Persian carpets, and nothing will make me say I don't. And I like silver and gold; and servants, and silk dresses, and ice-cream, and pictures, and big houses, and big mirrors, and all the rest of it."
"You can find it all in the eighteenth chapter of Revelation, in the description of the city Babylon; which means the world."
"I thought Babylon was Rome."
"Read for yourself."
I think Madge did not read it for herself, however; and the days went on after the accustomed fashion, till the one arrived which was fixed for Mrs. Chauncey Burrage's second musical party. The three ladies were all invited. Mrs. Wishart supposed they were all going; but when the day came Lois begged off. She did not feel like going, she said; it would be far pleasanter to her if she could stay at home quietly; it would be better for her. Mrs. Wishart demurred; the invitation had been very urgent; Mrs. Burrage would be disappointed; and, besides, she was a little proud herself of her handsome young relations, and wanted the glory of producing them together. However, Lois was earnest in her wish to be left at home; quietly earnest, which is the more difficult to deal with; and, knowing her passionate love for music, Mrs. Wishart decided that it must be her lingering weakness and languor which indisposed her for going. Lois was indeed looking well again; but both her friends had noticed that she was not come back to her old lively energy, whether of speaking or doing. Strength comes back so slowly, they said, after one of those fevers. Yet Madge was not satisfied with this reasoning, and pondered, as she and Mrs. Wishart drove away, what else might be the cause of Lois's refusal to go with them.
Meanwhile Lois, having seen them off and heard the house door close upon them, drew up her chair before the fire and sat down. She was in the back drawing-room, the windows of which looked out to the river and the opposite shore; but the shutters were closed and the curtains drawn, and only the interior view to be had now. So, or any way, Lois loved the place. It was large, roomy, old-fashioned, with none of the stiffness of new things about it; elegant, with the many tokens of home life, and of a long habit of culture and comfort. In a big chimney a big wood fire was burning quietly; the room was softly warm; a brilliant lamp behind Lois banished even imaginary gloom, and a faint red shine came from the burning hickory logs. Only this last illumination fell on Lois's face, and in it Lois's face showed grave and troubled. She was more like a sybil at this moment, looking into confused earthly things, than like one of Fra Angelico's angels rejoicing in the clear light of heaven.
Lois pulled her chair nearer to the fire, and bent down, leaning towards it; not for warmth, for she was not in the least cold; but for company, or for counsel. Who has not taken counsel of a fire? And Lois was in perplexity of some sort, and trying to think hard and to examine into herself. She half wished she had gone to the party at Mrs. Burrage's. And why had she not gone? She did not want, she did not think it was best, to meet Mr. Dillwyn there. And why not, seeing that she met him constantly where she was? Well,thatshe could not help; this would be voluntary; put ting herself in his way, and in his sister's way. Better not, Lois said to herself. But why, better not? It would surely be a pleasant gathering at Mrs. Burrage's, a pleasant party; her parties always were pleasant, Mrs. Wishart said; there would be none but the best sort of people there, good talking and good music; Lois would have liked it. What if Mr. Dillwyn were there too? Must she keep out of sight of him? Why should she keep out of sight of him? Lois put the question sharply to her conscience. And she found that the answer, if given truly, would be that she fancied Mr. Dillwyn liked her sister's society better than her own. But what then? The blood began to rush over Lois's cheeks and brow and to burn in her pulses.Then, it must be that she herself likedhissociety—liked him—yes, a little too well; else what harm in his preferring Madge? O, could it be? Lois hid her face in her hands for a while, greatly disturbed; she was very much afraid the case was even so.
But suppose it so; still, what of it? What did it signify, whom Mr. Dillwyn liked? to Lois he could never be anything. Only a pleasant acquain'tance. He and she were in two different lines of life, lines that never cross. Her promise was passed to her grandmother; she could never marry a man who was not a Christian. Happily Mr. Dillwyn did not want to marry her; no such question was coming up for decision. Then what was it to her if he liked Madge? Something, because it was not liking that would end in anything; it was impossible a man in his position and circumstances should choose for a wife one in hers. If he could make such a choice, it would be Madge's duty, as much as it would be her own, to refuse him. Would Madge refuse? Lois believed not. Indeed, she thought no one could refuse him, that had not unconquerable reasons of conscience; and Madge, she knew, did not share those which were so strong in her own mind. Ought Madge to share them? Was it indeed an absolute command that justified and necessitated the promise made to her grandmother? or was it a less stringent thing, that might possibly be passed over by one not so bound? Lois's mind was in a turmoil of thoughts most unusual, and most foreign to her nature and habit; thoughts seemed to go round in a whirl. And in the midst of the whirl there would come before her mind's eye, not now Tom Caruthers' face, but the vision of a pair of pleasant grey eyes at once keen and gentle; or of a close head of hair with a white hand roving amid the thick locks of it; or the outlines of a figure manly and lithe; or some little thing done with that ease of manner which was so winning. Sometimes she saw them as in Mrs. Wishart's drawing-room, and sometimes at the table in the dear old house in Shampuashuh, and sometimes under the drip of an umbrella in a pouring rain, and sometimes in the old schoolhouse. Manly and kind, and full of intelligence, filled with knowledge, well-bred, and noble; so Lois thought of him. Yet he was not a Christian, therefore no fit partner for Madge or for any one else who was a Christian. Could that be the absolute fact? Must it be? Was such the inevitable and universal conclusion? On what did the logic of it rest? Some words in the Bible bore the brunt of it, she knew; Lois had read them and talked them over with her grandmother; and now an irresistible desire took possession of her to read them again, and more critically. She jumped up and ran up-stairs for her Bible.
The fire was down in her own room; the gas was not lit; so she went back to the bright drawing-room, which to-night she had all to herself. She laid her book on the table and opened it, and then was suddenly checked by the question—what did all this matter to her, that she should be so fiercely eager about it? Dismay struck her anew. What was any un-Christian man to her, that her heart should beat so at considering possible relations between them? No such relations were desired by any such person; what ailed Lois even to take up the subject? If Mr. Dillwyn liked either of the sisters particularly, it was Madge. Probably his liking, if it existed, was no more than Tom Caruthers', of which Lois thought with great scorn. Still, she argued, did it not concern her to know with certain'ty what Madge ought to do, in the event of Mr. Dillwyn being not precisely like Tom Caruthers?
The sound of the opening door made her start up. She would not have even a servant surprise her so; kneeling on the floor with her face buried in her hands on the table. She started up hurriedly; and then was confounded to see entering—Mr. Dillwyn himself. She had heard no ring of the door-bell; that must have been when she was up-stairs getting her Bible. Lois found her feet, in the midst of a terrible confusion of thoughts; but the very inward confusion admonished her to be outwardly calm. She was not a woman of the world, and she had not had very much experience in the difficult art of hiding her feelings, oractingin any way; nevertheless she was a true woman, and woman's blessed—or cursed?—instinct of self-command came to her aid. She met Mr. Dillwyn with a face and manner perfectly composed; she knew she did; and cried to herself privately some thing very like a sea captain's order to his helmsman—"Steady! keep her so." Mr. Dillwyn saw that her face was flushed; but he saw, too, that he had disturbed her and startled her; that must be the reason. She looked so far from being delighted, that he could draw no other conclusion. So they shook hands. She thought he did not look delighted either. Of course, she thought, Madge was not there. And Mr. Dillwyn, whatever his mood when he came, recognized immediately the decided reserve and coolness of Lois's manner, and, to use another nautical phrase, laid his course accordingly.
"How do you do, this evening?"
"I think, quite well. There is nobody at home but me, Mr. Dillwyn."
"So I have been told. But it is a great deal pleasanter here, even with only one-third of the family, than it is in my solitary rooms at the hotel."
At that Lois sat down, and so did he. She could not seem to bid him go away. However, she said—
"Mrs. Wishart has taken Madge to your sister's. It is the night of her music party."
"Why did not Mrs. Wishart take you?"
"I thought—it was better for me to stay at home," Lois answered, with a little hesitation.
"You are not afraid of an evening alone!"
"No, indeed; how could I be? Indeed, I think in New York it is rather a luxury."
Then she wished she had not said that. Would he think she meant to intimate that he was depriving her of a luxury? Lois was annoyed at herself; and hurried on to say something else, which she did not intend should be so much in the same line as it proved. Indeed, she was shocked the moment she had spoken.
"Don't you go to your sister's music parties, Mr. Dillwyn?"
"Not universally."
"I thought you were so fond of music"—Lois said apologetically.
"Yes," he said, smiling. "That keeps me away."
"I thought,"—said Lois,—"I thought they said the music was so good?"
"I have no doubt they say it. And they mean it honestly."
"And it is not?"
"I find it quite too severe a tax on my powers of simulation and dissimulation. Those are powers you never call in play?" he added, with a most pleasant smile and glance at her.
"Simulation and dissimulation?" repeated Lois, who had by no means got her usual balance of mind or manner yet. "Are those powers which ought to be called into play?"
"What are you going to do?"
"When?"
"When, for instance, you are in the mood for a grand theme of Handel, and somebody gives you a sentimental bit of Rossini. Or when Mendelssohn is played as if 'songs without words' were songs without meaning. Or when a singer simply displays to you a VOICE, and leaves music out of the question altogether."
"That is hard!" said Lois.
"What is one to do then?"
"It is hard," Lois said again. "But I suppose one ought always to be true."
"If I am true, I must say what I think."
"Yes. If you speak at all."
"What willtheythink then?"
"Yes," said Lois. "But, after all, that is not the first question."
"What is the first question?"
"I think—to do right."
"But whatisright? What will people think of me, if I tell them their playing is abominable?"
"You need not say it just with those words," said Lois. "And perhaps, if anybody told them the truth, they would do better. At any rate, what they think is not the question, Mr. Dillwyn."
"What is the question?" he asked, smiling.
"What the Lord will think."
"Miss Lois, do you never use dissimulation?"
Lois could not help colouring, a little distressed.
"I try not," she answered. "I dare say I do, sometimes. I dare not sayI do not. It is very difficult for a woman to help it."
"More difficult for a woman than for a man?"
"I do not know. I suppose it is."
"Why should that be?"
"I do not know—unless because she is the weaker, and it may be part of the defensive armour of a weak animal."
Mr. Dillwyn laughed a little.
"But that is _dis_simulation," said Lois. "One is not bound always to say all one thinks; only never to say what one does not think."
"You would always give a true answer to a question?"
"I would try."
"I believe it. And now, Miss Lois, in that trust, I am going to ask you a question. Do you recollect a certain walk in the rain?"
"Certainly!" she said, looking at him with some anxiety.
"And the conversation we held under the umbrella, without simulation or dissimulation?"
"Yes."
"You tacitly—perhaps more than tacitly—blamed me for having spent so much of my life in idleness; that is uselessly, to all but myself."
"Did I?"
"You did. And I have thought about it since. And I quite agree with you that to be idle is to be neither wise nor dignified. But here rises a difficulty. I think I would like to be of some use in the world, if I could. But I do not know what to set about."
Lois waited, with silent attention.
"My question is this: How is a man to find his work in the world?"
Lois's eyes, which had been on his face, went away to the fire. His, which had been on the ground, rose to her face.
"I am in a fog," he said
"I believe every one has his work," Lois remarked.
"I think you said so."
"The Bible says so, at any rate."
"Thenhow is a man to find his work?" Philip asked, half smiling; at the same time he drew up his chair a little nearer the fire, and began to put the same in order. Evidently he was not going away immediately, and had a mind to talk out the subject. But why with her? And was he not going to his sister's?—
"If each one has, not only his work but his peculiar work, it must be a very important matter to make sure he has found it. A wheel in a machine can do its own work, but it cannot take the part of another wheel. And your words suppose an exact adjustment of parts and powers."
"The Bible words," said Lois.
"Yes. Well, to my question. I do not know what I ought to do, MissLois. I do not see the work to my hand. How am I ever to be any wiser?"
"I am the last person you should ask. And besides,—I do not think anybody knows enough to set another his appointed task."
"How is he to find it, then?"
"He must ask the One who does know."
"Ask?—Pray, you mean?"
"Yes, pray. He must ask to be shown what he ought to do, and how to do it. God knows what place he is meant to fill in the world."
"And if he asks, will he be told?"
"Certainly. That is the promise. 'If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God, that giveth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not;and it shall be given him.'"
Lois's eyes came over to her questioner at the last words, as it were, setting a seal to them.
"How will he get the answer? Suppose, for instance, I want wisdom; and I kneel down and pray that I may know my work. I rise from my prayer,—there is no voice, nor writing, nor visible sign; how am I the wiser?"
"You think it willnotbe given him?" Lois said, with a faint smile.
"I do not say that. I dare not. But how?"
"You must not think that, or the asking will be vain. You must believe the Lord's promise."
Lois was warming out of her reserve, and possibly Mr. Dillwyn had a purpose that she should; though I think he was quite earnest with his question. But certainly he was watching her, as well as listening to her.
"Go on," he said. "How will the answer come to me?"
"There is another condition, too. You must be quite willing to hear the answer."
"Why?"
"Else you will be likely to miss it. You know, Mr. Dillwyn,—you donotknow much about housekeeping things,—but I suppose you understand, that if you want to weigh anything truly, your balance must hang even."
He smiled.
"Well, then,—Miss Lois?"
"The answer? It comes different ways. But it is sure to come. I think one way is this,—You see distinctly one thing you ought to do; it is not life-work, but it is one thing. That is enough for one step. You do that; and then you find that that one step has brought you where you can see a little further, and another step is clear. That will do," Lois concluded, smiling; "step by step, you will get where you want to be."
Mr. Dillwyn smiled too, thoughtfully, as it were, to himself.
"Was itsothat you went to teach school at that unlucky place?—what do you call it?"
"It was not unlucky. Esterbrooke. Yes, I think I went so."
"Was not that a mistake?"
"No, I think not."
"But your work there was broken up?"
"O, but I expect to go back again."
"Back! There? It is too unhealthy."
"It will not be unhealthy, when the railroad is finished."
"I am afraid it will, for some time. And it is too rough a place for you."
"That is why they want me the more."
"Miss Lois, you are not strong enough."
"I am very strong!" she answered, with a delicious smile.
"But there is such a thing—don't you think so?—as fitness of means to ends. You would not take a silver spade to break ground with?"
"I am not at all a silver spade," said Lois. "But if I were; suppose I had no other?"
"Then surely the breaking ground must be left to a different instrument."
"That won't do," said Lois, shaking her head. "The instrument cannot choose, you know, where it will be employed. It does not know enough for that."
"But it made you ill, that work."
"I am recovering fast."
"You came to a good place for recovering," said Dillwyn, glancing round the room, and willing, perhaps, to leave the subject.
"Almost too good," said Lois. "It spoils one. You cannot imagine the contrast between what I came from—andthis. I have been like one in dreamland. And there comes over me now and then a strange feeling of the inequality of things; almost a sense of wrong; the way I am cared for is so very different from the very best and utmost that could be done for the poor people at Esterbrooke. Think of my soups and creams and ices and oranges and grapes!—and there, very often I could not get a bit of fresh beef to make beef-tea; and what could I do without beef-tea? And what would I not have given for an orange sometimes! I do not mean, for myself. I could get hardly anything the sick people really wanted. And here—it is like rain from the clouds."
"Where does the 'sense of wrong' come in?"
"It seems as if thingsneednot be so unequal."
"And what does your silver spade expect to do there?"
"Don't say that! I have no silver spade. But just so far as I could help to introduce better ways and a knowledge of better things, the inequality would be made up—or on the way to be made up."
"What refining measures are you thinking of?—beside your own presence and example."
"I was certainly not thinking ofthat. Why, Mr. Dillwyn, knowledge itself is refining; and then, so is comfort; and I could help them to more comfort, in their houses, and in their meals. I began to teach them singing, which has a great effect; and I carried all the pictures I had with me. Most of all, though, to bring them to a knowledge of Bible truth is the principal thing and the surest way. The rest is really in order to that."
"Wasn't it very hard work?"
"No," said Lois. "Some things were hard; but not the work."
"Because you like it."
"Yes. O, Mr. Dillwyn, there is nothing pleasanter than to do one's work, if it is work one is sure God has given."
"That must be because you love him," said Philip gravely. "Yet I understand, that in the universal adjustment of things, the instrument and its proper work must agree." He was silent a minute, and Lois did not break the pause. If he would think, let him think, was her meaning. Then he began again.
"There are different ways. What would you think of a man who spent his whole life in painting?"
"I should not think that could be anybody's proper life-work."
"I think it was truly his, and he served God in it."
"Who was he?"
"A Catholic monk, in the fifteenth century."
"What did he paint? What was his name?"
"His name was Fra Angelico—by reason of the angelic character which belonged to him and to his paintings; otherwise Fra Giovanni; he was a monk in a Dominican cloister. He entered the convent when he was twenty years old; and from that time, till he was sixty-eight, he served God and his generation by painting."
Lois looked somewhat incredulous. Mr. Dillwyn here took from one of his pockets a small case, opened it and put it in her hands. It was an excellent copy of a bit of Fra Angelico's work.
"That," he said as he gave it her, "is the head of one of Fra Angelico's angels, from a group in a large picture. I had this copy made for myself some years ago—at a time when I only dimly felt what now I am beginning to understand."
Lois scarce heard what he said. From the time she received the picture in her hands she lost all thought of everything else. The unearthly beauty and purity, the heavenly devotion and joy, seized her heart as with a spell. The delicate lines of the face, the sweet colouring, the finished, perfect handling, were most admirable; but it was the marvellous spiritual love and purity which so took possession of Lois. Her eyes filled and her cheeks flushed. It was, so far as painting could give it, the truth of heaven; and that goes to the heart of the human creature who perceives it. Mr. Dillwyn was watching her, meanwhile, and could look safely, secure that Lois was in no danger of finding it out; and while she, very likely, was thinking of the distance between that angel face and her own, Philip, on the other hand, was following the line of his sister's thought, and tracing the fancied likeness. Like one of Fra Angelico's angels! Yes, there was the same sort of grave purity, of unworldly if not unearthly spiritual beauty. Truly the rapt joy was not there, nor the unshadowed triumph; but love,—and innocence,—and humility,—and truth; and not a stain of the world upon it. Lois said not one word, but looked and looked, till at last she tendered the picture back to its owner.
"Perhaps you would like to keep it," said he, "and show it to your sister."
He brought it to have Madge see it! thought Lois. Aloud—
"No—she would enjoy it a great deal more if you showed it to her;—then you could tell her about it."
"I think you could explain it better."
As he made no motion to take back the picture, Lois drew in her hand again and took a further view. How beautiful was the fair, bright, rapt, blissful face of the angel!—as if, indeed, he were looking at heaven's glories.
"Did he—did the painter—always paint like this?"
"Always, I believe. He improved in his manner as he went on; he painted better and better; but from youth to age he was incessantly doing the one thing, serving God with his pencil. He never painted for money; that is, not for himself; the money went into the church's treasury. He did not work for fame; much of his best work is upon the walls of the monks' cells, where few would see it. He would not receive office. He lived upon the Old and New Testaments, and prayer; and the one business of his life was to show forth to the world what he believed, in such beautiful wise that they might be won to believe it too."
"That is exactly the work we have to do,—everybody," said Lois, lifting her eyes with a bright light in them. "I mean, everybody that is a Christian. That is it;—to show forth Christ, and in such wise that men may see and believe in him too. That is the word in Philippians—'shining as lights in the world, holding forth the word of life.' I did not know it was possible to do it in painting—but I see it is. O, thank you for showing me this!—it has done me good."
Her eyes were glistening as she gave him the picture again. Philip put it in security, in silence, and rose up.
"Well," said he, "now I will go and hear somebody play the 'Carnival ofVenice,' as if it were all rattle and no fun."
"Is that the way they play it?"
"It is the way some people play it. Good night."
The door closed after him, and Lois sat down alone before the fire again.
She did not open her Bible to go on with the investigation Mr. Dillwyn had broken off. Now that he had just been with her in proper person, an instinct of scared modesty fled from the question whether or no he were a man whom a Christian woman might marry. What was it to her? Lois said to herself; what did it concern her, whether such a marriage were permissible or no? Such a question would never come to her for decision. To Madge, perhaps? But now the other question did ask for consideration;—Why she winced at the idea that it might come to Madge? Madge did not share her sister's scruple; Madge had not made the promise Lois had made; if Mr. Dillwyn asked her, she would accept him, Lois had little doubt. Perhaps he would ask her; and why, why did Lois wish he would not? For she perceived that the idea gave her pain. Why should it give her pain? For herself, the thing was a fixed fact; whatever the Bible said—and she knew pretty well what it said—forher, such a marriage was an impossibility. And why should she think about it at all? nobody else was thinking about it. Fra Angelico's angel came back to her mind; the clear, unshadowed eyes, the pure, glad face, the separateness from all earth's passions or pleasures, the lofty exaltation above them. So ought she to be. And then, while this thought was warmest, came, shutting it out, the image of Mr. Dillwyn at the music party; what he was doing there, how he would look and speak, how Madge would enjoy his attentions, and everything; and Lois suddenly felt as if she herself were very much alone. Not merely alone now, to-night; she had chosen this, and liked it; (did she like it?)—not now, but all through her life. It suddenly seemed to Lois as if she were henceforth to be always alone. Madge would no doubt marry—somebody; and there was no home, and nobody to make home for Lois. She had never thought of it before, but now she seemed to see it all quite clearly. Mrs. Barclay's work had been, to separate her, in a certain way, from her family and her surroundings. They fitted together no longer. Lois knew what they did not know; she had tastes which they did not share, but which now were become part of her being; the society in which she had moved all her life till two years, or three years, ago, could no longer content her. It was not inanimate nature, her garden, her spade and her wheelbarrow, that seemed distasteful; Lois could have gone into that work again with all her heart, and thought it no hardship; it was the mental level at which the people lived; the social level, in houses, tables, dress, and amusements, and manner; the aesthetic level of beauty, and grace, and fitness, or at least the perception of them. Lois pondered and revolved this all till she began to grow rather dreary. Think of the Esterbrooke school, and of being alone there! Rough, rude, coarse boys and girls; untaught, untamed, ungovernable, except by an uncommon exertion of wisdom and will; long days of hard labour, nights of common food and sleep, with no delicate arrangements for either, and social refreshment utterly out of the question. And Madge away; married, perhaps, and travelling in Europe, and seeing Fra Angelico's paintings. Then the angel's face recurred to Lois, and she pulled herself up. The angel's face and the painter's history both confronted her. On one hand, the seraphic purity and joy of a creature who knew no will but God's will; on the other hand, the quiet, patient life, which had borne such fruits. Four hundred years ago, Fra Angelico painted; and ever since his work had been bearing witness to God's truth and salvation; was even at that minute teaching and admonishing herself. What did it signify justhowher own work should be done, if only it were like work? What matter whether rough or smooth, alone or in company? Where the service is to be done, there the Master puts his servant; what the service is, he knows; for the servant, all that he has to take care of is, that step by step he follow where he is led, and everywhere, and by all means in his power, that he show forth Christ to men. Then something like that angel's security would be with him all the way, and something like that angel's joy be at the end of it. The little picture had helped and comforted Lois amazingly, and she went to bed with a heart humbled and almost contented.
She went, however, in good time, before Madge could return home; she did not want to hear the outflow of description and expatiation which might be expected. And Madge indeed found her so seemingly sleepy, that she was forced to give up talking and come to bed too. But all Lois had gained was a respite. The next morning, as soon as they were awake, Madge began.
"Lois, we had a grand time last night! You were so stupidly asleep whenI came home, I couldn't tell you. We had a beautiful time! O Lois, Mrs.Burrage's house is just magnificent!"
"I suppose so."
"The floors are all laid in patterns of different coloured woods—a sort of mosaic—"
"Parquetry."
"What?—I call it mosaic, with centre-pieces and borders,—O, elegant!And they are smooth and polished; and then carpets and rugs of allsorts are laid about; and it's most beautiful. She has got one of thosePersian carpets she was telling about, Lois."
"I dare say."
"And the walls are all great mirrors, or else there is the richest sort of drapery—curtains, or hangings; and the prettiest painted walls. And O, Lois, the flowers!—"
"Where were they?"
"Everywhere! On tables, and little shelves on the wall—"
"Brackets."
"O, well!—shelves theyare, call them what you like; and stands of plants and pots of plants—the whole place was sweet with the smell, and green with the leaves, and brilliant with the flowers—"
"Seems to have been brilliant generally."
"So it was, justbrilliant, with all that, and with the lights, and with the people."
"Were the people brilliant too?"
"And the playing."
"O,—the playing!"
"Everybody said so. It wasn't like Mrs. Barclay's playing."
"What was it like?"
"It looked like very hard work, to me. My dear, I saw the drops of sweat standing on one man's forehead;—he had been playing a pretty long piece," Madge added, by way of accounting for things. "I never saw anything like it, in all my life!"
"Like what?—sweat on a man's forehead?"
"Like the playing. Don't be ridiculous."
"It is not I," said Lois, who meanwhile had risenn and was getting dressed. Madge was doing the same, talking all the while. "So the playing was something to beseen. What was the singing?"
Madge stood still, comb in hand. "I don't know!" she said gravely. Lois could not help laughing.
"Well, I don't," Madge went on. "It was so queer, some of it, I did not know which way to look. Some of it was regular yelling, Lois; and if people are going to yell, I'd rather have it out-of-doors. But one man—I think he thought he was doing it remarkably well—the goings up and down of his voice—"
"Cadences—"
"Well, the cadences if you choose; they made me think of nothing but the tones of the lions and other beasts in the menagerie. Don't you know how they roar up and down? first softly and then loud? I had everything in the world to do not to laugh out downright. He was singing something meant to be very pathetic; and it was absolutely killing."
"It was not all like that, I suppose?"
"No. There was some I liked. But nothing one-half so good as your singing a hymn, Lois. I wish you could have been there to give them one. Only you could not sing a hymn in such a place."
"Why not?"
"Why, because! It would be out of place."
"I would not go anywhere where a hymn would be out of place."
"That's nonsense. But O, how the people were dressed, Lois! Brilliant!O you may well say so. It took away my breath at first"
"You got it again, I hope?"
"Yes. But O, Lois, itisnice to have plenty of money."
"Well, yes. And it is nicenotto have it—if the Lord makes it so."
"Makeswhatso? You are very unsympathetic this morning, Lois! But if you had only been there. O Lois, there were one or two fur rugs—fur skins for rugs,—the most beautiful things I ever saw. One was a leopard's skin, with its beautiful spots; the other was white and thick and fluffy—I couldn't find out what it was."
"Bear, maybe."
"Bear! O Lois—those two skins finished me! I kept my head for a while, with all the mosaic floors and rich hangings and flowers and dresses,—but those two skins took away the little sense I had left. They looked so magnificent! so luxurious."
"They are luxurious, no doubt."
"Lois, I don't see why some people should have so much, and others so little."
"The same sort of question that puzzled David once."
"Why should Mrs. Burrage have all that, and you and I have only yellow painted floors and rag carpets?"
"I don't want 'all that.'"
"Don't you?"
"No."
"I do."
"Madge, those things do not make people happy."
"It's all very well to say so, Lois. I should like just to try once."
"How do you like Mrs. Burrage?"
Madge hesitated a trifle.
"She is pleasant,—pretty, and clever, and lively; she went flying about among the people like a butterfly, stopping a minute here and a minute there, but I guess it was not to get honey but to give it. She was a little honeyfied to me, but not much. I don't—think"—(slowly) "she liked to see her brother making much of me."
Lois was silent.
"He was there; I didn't tell you. He came a little late. He said he had been here, and as he didn't find us he came on to his sister's."
"He was here a little while."
"So he said. But he was so good, Lois! He wasverygood. He talked to me, and told me about things, and took care of me, and gave me supper. I tell you, I thought madam his sister looked a little askance at him once or twice. Iknowshe tried to get him away."
Lois again made no answer.
"Why should she, Lois?"
"Maybe you were mistaken."
"I don't think I was mistaken. But why should she, Lois?"
"Madge, dear, you know what I told you."
"About what?"
"About that; people's feelings. You and I do not belong to this gay, rich world; we are not rich, and we are not fashionable, and we do not live as they live, in any way; and they do not want us; why should they?"
"We should not hurt them!" said Madge indignantly.
"Nor be of any use or pleasure to them."
"There isn't a girl among them all to compare with you, as far as looks go."
"I am afraid that will not help the matter," said Lois, smiling; but then she added with earnest and almost anxious eagerness,
"Madge, dear, don't think about it! Happiness is not there; and what God gives us is best. Best for you and best for me. Don't you wish for riches!—or for anything we haven't got. What we have to do, is to live so as to show forth Christ and his truth before men."
"Very few do that," said Madge shortly.
"Let us be some of the few."
"I'd like to do it in high places, then," said Madge. "O, you needn't talk, Lois! It's a great deal nicer to have a leopard skin under your feet than a rag-carpet."