"Who said she wasn't? I said she was proud, and she is. She's a right, for all I know; she ain't like our Shampuashuh people."
"She is a lady," said Lois.
"What do you mean by that, Lois?" Madge fired up. "You don't mean, I hope, that the rest of us are not ladies, do you?"
"Not like her."
"Well, why should we be like her?"
"Because her ways are so beautiful. I should be glad to be like her.She is just what you called her—elegant."
"Everybody has their own ways," said Madge.
"I hope none of you will be like her," said Mrs. Armadale gravely; "for she's a woman of the world, and knows the world's ways, and she knows nothin' else, poor thing!"
"But, grandmother," Lois put in, "some of the world's ways are good."
"Be they?" said the old lady. "I don' know which of 'em."
"Well, grandmother, this way of beautiful manners. They don't all have it—I don't mean that—but some of them do. They seem to know exactly how to behave to everybody, and always what to do or to say; and you can see Mrs. Barclay is one of those. And I like those people. There is a charm about them."
"Don't you always know what's right to do or say, with the Bible before you?"
"O grandmother, but I mean in little things; little words and ways, and tones of voice even. It isn't like Shampuashuh people."
"Well,we're Shampuashuh folks," said Charity. "I hope you won't set up for nothin' else, Lois. I guess your head got turned a bit, with goin' round the world. But I wish I knew what makes her look so sober!"
"She has lost her husband."
"Other folks have lost their husbands, and a good many of 'em have found another. Don't be ridiculous, Lois!"
The first bait that took, in the shape of books, was Scott's "Lady of the Lake." Lois opened it one day, was caught, begged to be allowed to read it; and from that time had it in her hand whenever her hand was free to hold it. She read it aloud, sometimes, to her grandmother, who listened with a half shake of her head, but allowed it was pretty. Charity was less easy to bribe with sweet sounds.
"What on earth is the use of that?" she demanded one day, when she had stood still for ten minutes in her way through the room, to hear the account of Fitz James's adventure in the wood with Roderick Dhu.
"Don't you like it?" said Lois.
"Don't make head or tail of it. And there sits Madge with her mouth open, as if it was something to eat; and Lois's cheeks are as pink as if she expected the people to step out and walk in. Mother, do you like all that stuff?"
"It ispoetry, Charity," cried Lois.
"What's the use o' poetry? can you tell me? It seems to me nonsense for a man to write in that way. If he has got something to say, why don't hesayit, and be done with it?"
"He does say it, in a most beautiful way."
"It'd be a queer way of doing business!"
"It isnotbusiness," said Lois, laughing. "Charity, will you not understand? It ispoetry."
"What is poetry?"
But alas! Charity had asked what nobody could answer, and she had the field in triumph.
"It is just a jingle-jangle, and what I call nonsense. Mother, ain't that what you would say is a waste of time?"
"I don't know, my dear," said Mrs. Armadale doubtfully, applying her knitting needle to the back of her ear.
"It isn't nonsense; it is delightful!" said Madge indignantly.
"You want me to go on, grandmother, don't you?" said Lois. "We want to know about the fight, when the two get to Coilantogle ford."
And as she was not forbidden, she went on; while Charity got the spice-box she had come for, and left the room superior.
The "Lady of the Lake" was read through. Mrs. Barclay had hoped to draw on some historical inquiries by means of it; but before she could find a chance, Lois took up Greville's Memoirs. This she read to herself; and not many pages, before she came with the book and a puzzled face to Mrs. Barclay's room. Mrs. Barclay was, we may say, a fisher lying in wait for a bite; now she saw she had got one; the thing was to haul in the line warily and skilfully. She broke up a piece of coal on the fire, and gave her visitor an easy-chair.
"Sit there, my dear. I am very glad of your company. What have you in your hand? Greville?"
"Yes. I want to ask you about some things. Am I not disturbing you?"
"Most agreeably. I can have nothing better to do than to talk with you.What is the question?"
"There are several questions. It seems to me a very strange book!"
"Perhaps it is. But why do you say so?"
"Perhaps I should rather say that the people are strange. Isthiswhat the highest society in England is like?"
"In what particulars, do you mean?"
"Why, I think Shampuashuh is better. I am sure Shampuashuh would be ashamed of such doings."
"What are you thinking of?" Mrs. Barclay asked, carefully repressing a smile.
"Why, here are people with every advantage, with money and with education, and with the power of place and rank,—living for nothing but mere amusement, and very poor amusement too."
"The conversations alluded to were very often not poor amusement. Some of the society were very brilliant and very experienced men."
"But they did nothing with their lives."
"How does that appear?"
"Here, at the Duke of York's," said Lois, turning over her leaves;—"they sat up till four in the morning playing whist; and on Sunday they amused themselves shooting pistols and eating fruit in the garden, and playing with the monkeys! That is like children."
"My dear, half the world do nothing with their lives, as you phrase it."
"But they ought. And you expect it of people in high places, and having all sorts of advantages."
"You expect, then, what you do not find."
"And is all of what is called the great world, no better than that?"
"Some of it is better." (O Philip, Philip, where are you? thought Mrs. Barclay.) "They do not all play whist all night. But you know, Lois, people come together to be amused; and it is not everybody that can talk, or act, sensibly for a long stretch."
"Howcanthey play cards all night?"
"Whist is very ensnaring. And the little excitement of stakes draws people on."
"Stakes?" said Lois inquiringly.
"Sums staked on the game."
"Oh! But that is worse than foolish."
"It is to keep the game from growing tiresome. Do you see any harm in it?"
"Why, that's gambling."
"In a small way."
"Is it always in a small way?"
"People do not generally play very high at whist."
"It is all the same thing," said Lois. "People begin with a little, and then a little will not satisfy them."
"True; but one must take the world as one finds it."
"Is the New York world like this?" said Lois, after a moment's pause.
"No! Not in the coarseness you find Mr. Greville tells of. In the matter of pleasure-seeking, I am afraid times and places are much alike. Those who live for pleasure, are driven to seek it in all manner of ways. The ways sometimes vary; the principle does not."
"And do all the men gamble?"
"No. Many do not touch cards. My friend, Mr. Dillwyn, for example."
"Mr. Dillwyn? Do you know him?"
"Very well. He was a dear friend of my husband, and has been a faithful friend to me. Do you know him?"
"A little. I have seen him."
"You must not expect too much from the world, my dear."
"According to what you say, one must not expectanythingfrom it."
"That is too severe."
"No," said Lois. "What is there to admire or respect in a person who lives only for pleasure?"
"Sometimes there are fine qualities, and brilliant parts, and noble powers."
"Ah, that makes it only worse!" cried Lois. "Fine qualities, and brilliant parts, and noble powers, all used for nothing! Thatismiserable; and when there is so much to do in the world, too!"
"Of what kind?" asked Mrs. Barclay, curious to know her companion's course of thought.
"O, help."
"What sort of help?"
"Almost all sorts," said Lois. "You must know even better than I. Don't you see a great many people in New York that are in want of some sort of help?"
"Yes; but it is not always easy to give, even where the need is greatest. People's troubles come largely from their follies."
"Or from other people's follies."
"That is true. But how would you help, Lois?"
"Where there's a will, there's a way, Mrs. Barclay."
"You are thinking of help to the poor? There is a great deal of that done."
"I am thinking of poverty, and sickness, and weakness, and ignorance, and injustice. And a grand man could do a great deal. But not if he lived like the creatures in this book. I never saw such a book."
"But we must take men as we find them; and most men are busy seeking their own happiness. You cannot blame them for that. It is human nature."
"I blame them for seeking it so. And it is not happiness that people play whist for, till four o'clock in the morning."
"What then?"
"Forgetfulness, I should think; distraction; because they do not know anything about happiness."
"Who does?" said Mrs. Barclay sadly.
Lois was silent, not because she had not something to say, but because she was not certain how best to say it. There was no doubt in her sweet face, rather a grave assurance which stimulated Mrs. Barclay's curiosity.
"We must take people as we find them," she repeated. "You cannot expect men who live for pleasure to give up their search for the sake of other people's pleasure."
"Yet that is the way,—which they miss," said Lois.
"The way to what?"
"To real enjoyment. To life that is worth living."
"What would you have them do?"
"Only what the Bible says."
"I do not believe I know the Bible as well as you do. Of what directions are you thinking? 'The poor ye have always with you'?"
"Not that," said Lois. "Let me get my Bible, and I will tell you.—This, Mrs. Barclay—'To loose the bands of wickedness, to undo the heavy burdens, and to let the oppressed go free, and that ye break every yoke….. To deal thy bread to the hungry, and that thou bring the poor that are cast out to thy house; when thou seest the naked, that thou cover him; and that thou hide not thyself from thine own flesh'….."
"And do you think, to live right, one must live so?"
"It is the Bible!" said Lois, with so innocent a look of having answered all questions, that Mrs. Barclay was near smiling.
"Do you think anybody ever did live so?"
"Job."
"Did he! I forget."
Lois turned over some leaves, and again read—"'When the ear heard me, then it blessed me; and when the eye saw me, it gave witness to me: because I delivered the poor that cried, and the fatherless, and him that had none to help him. The blessing of him that was ready to perish came upon me: and I caused the widow's heart to sing for joy…. I was eyes to the blind, and feet was I to the lame. I was a father to the poor: and the cause that I knew not I searched out. And I brake the jaws of the wicked, and plucked the spoil out of his teeth.'"
"To be afather to the poor, in these days, would give a man enough to do, certainly; especially if he searched out all the causes which were doubtful. It would take all a man's time, and all his money too, if he were as rich as Job;—unless you put some limit, Lois."
"What limit, Mrs. Barclay?"
"Do you put none? I was not long ago speaking with a friend, such a man of parts and powers as was mentioned just now; a man who thus far in his life has done nothing but for his own cultivation and amusement. I was urging upon him to dosomethingwith himself; but I did not tell him what. It did not occur to me to set him about righting ail the wrongs of the world."
"Is he a Christian?"
"I am afraid you would not say so."
"Then he could not. One must love other people, to live for them."
"Loveall sorts?" said Mrs. Barclay.
"You cannot work for them unless you do."
"Then it is hopeless!—unless one is born with an exceptional mind."
"O no," said Lois, smiling, "not hopeless. The love of Christ brings the love of all that he loves."
There was a glow and a sparkle, and a tenderness too, in the girl's face, which made Mrs. Barclay look at her in a somewhat puzzled admiration. She did not understand Lois's words, and she saw that her face was a commentary upon them; therefore also unintelligible; but it was strangely pure and fair. "You would do for Philip, I do believe," she thought, "if he could get you; but he will never get you." Aloud she said nothing. By and by Lois returned to the book she had brought in with her.
"Here are some words which I cannot read; they are not English. What are they?"
Mrs. Barclay read: "Le bon goût, les ris, l'aimable liberté. That isFrench."
"What does it mean?"
"Good taste, laughter, and charming liberty. You do not know French?"
"O no," said Lois, with a sort of breath of longing. "French words come in quite often here, and I am always so curious to know what they mean."
"Very well, why not learn? I will teach you."
"O, Mrs. Barclay!"—
"It will give me the greatest pleasure. And it is very easy."
"O, I do not care aboutthat," said Lois; "but I would be so glad to know a little more than I do."
"You seem to me to havethoughta good deal more than most girls of your age; and thought is better than knowledge."
"Ah, but one needs knowledge in order to think justly."
"An excellent remark! which—if you will for give me—I was making to myself a few minutes ago."
"A few minutes ago? About what I said? O, but there Ihaveknowledge," said Lois, smiling.
"You are sure of that?"
"Yes," said Lois, gravely now. "The Bible cannot be mistaken, Mrs.Barclay."
"But your application of it?"
"How can that be mistaken? The words are plain."
"Pardon me. I was only venturing to think that you could have seen little, here in Shampuashuh, of the miseries of the world, and so know little of the difficulty of getting rid of them, or of ministering to them effectually."
"Not much," Lois agreed. "Yet I have seen so much done by people without means—I thought, those whohavemeans might do more."
"What have you seen? Do tell me. Here I am ignorant; except in so far as I know what some large societies accomplish, and fail to accomplish."
"I have not seen much," Lois repeated. "But I know one person, a farmer's wife, no better off than a great many people here, who has brought up and educated a dozen girls who were friendless and poor."
"A dozen girls!" Mrs. Barclay echoed.
"I think there have been thirteen. She had no children of her own; she was comfortably well off; and she took these girls, one after another, sometimes two or three together; and taught them and trained them, and fed and clothed them, and sent them to school; and kept them with her until one by one they married off. They all turned out well."
"I am dumb!" said Mrs. Barclay. "Giving money is one thing; I can understand that; but taking strangers' children into one's house and home life—and adozenstrangers' children!"
"I know another woman, not so well off, who does her own work, as most do here; who goes to nurse any one she hears of that is sick and cannot afford to get help. She will sit up all night taking care of somebody, and then at break of the morning go home to make her own fire and get her own family's breakfast."
"But that is superb!" cried Mrs. Barclay.
"And my father," Lois went on, with a lowered voice,—"he was not very well off, but he used to keep a certain little sum for lending; to lend to anybody that might be in great need; and generally, as soon as one person paid it back another person was in want of it."
"Was it always paid back?"
"Always; except, I think, at two times. Once the man died before he could repay it. The other time it was lent to a woman, a widow; and she married again, and between the man and the woman my father never could get his money. But it was made up to him another way. He lost nothing."
"You have been in a different school from mine, Lois," said Mrs.Barclay. "I am filled with admiration."
"You see," Lois went on, "I thought, if with no money or opportunity to speak of, one can do so much, what might be done if one had the power and the will too?"
"But in my small experience it is by no means the rule, that money lent is honestly paid back again."
"Ah," said Lois, with an irradiating smile, "but this money was lent to the Lord; I suppose that makes the difference."
"And are you bound to think well of no man but one who lives after this exalted fashion? How will you ever get married, Lois?"
"I should not like to be married to this Duke of York the book tells of; nor to the writer of the book," Lois said, smiling.
"That Duke of York was brother to the King of England."
"The King was worse yet! He was not even respectable."
"I believe you are right. Come—let us begin our French lessons."
With shy delight, Lois came near and followed with most eager attention the instructions of her friend. Mrs. Barclay fetched a volume of Florian's "Easy Writing"; and to the end of her life Lois will never forget the opening sentences in which she made her first essay at French pronunciation, and received her first knowledge of what French words mean. "Non loin de la ville de Cures, dans le pays des Sabins, au milieu d'une antique forêt, s'élève un temple consacré à Cérès." So it began; and the words had a truly witching interest for Lois.. But while she delightedly forgot all she had been talking about, Mrs. Barclay, not delightedly, recalled and went over it. Philip, Philip! your case is dark! she was saying. And what am I about, trying to help you!
There came a charming new life into the house of the Lothrops. Madge and Lois were learning to draw, and Lois was prosecuting her French studies with a zeal which promised to carry all before it. Every minute of her time was used; every opportunity was grasped; "Numa Pompilius" and the dictionary were in her hands whenever her hands were free; or Lois was bending over her drawing with an intent eye and eager fingers. Madge kept her company in these new pursuits, perhaps with less engrossing interest; nevertheless with steady purpose and steady progress. Then Mrs. Barclay received from New York a consignment of beautiful drawings and engravings from the best old masters, and some of the best of the new; and she found her hands becoming very full. To look at these engravings was almost a passion with the two girls; but not in the common way of picture-seeing. Lois wanted to understand everything; and it was necessary, therefore, to go into wide fields of knowledge, where the paths branched many ways, and to follow these various tracks out, one after another. This could not be done all in talking; and Lois plunged into a very sea of reading. Mrs. Barclay was not obliged to restrain her, for the girl was thorough and methodical in her ways of study, as of doing other things; however, she would carry on two or three lines of reading at once. Mrs. Barclay wrote to her unknown correspondent, "Send me 'Sismondi';" "send me Hallam's 'Middle Ages';" "send me 'Walks about Kome';" "send me 'Plutarch's Lives';" "send me D'Aubigné's 'Réformation';" at last she wrote, "Send me Ruskin's 'Modern Painters'." "I have the most enormous intellectual appetite to feed that ever I had to do with in my life. And yet no danger of an indigestion. Positively, Philip, my task is growing from day to day delightful; it is only when I think of the end and aim of it all that I get feverish and uneasy. At present we are going with 'a full sail and a flowing sea'; a regular sweeping into knowledge, with a smooth, easy, swift occupying and taking possession, which gives the looker-on a stir of wondering admiration. Those engravings were a great success; they opened for me, and at once, doors before which I might have waited some time; and now, eyes are exploring eagerly the vast realms those doors unclose, and hesitating only in which first to set foot. You may send the 'Stones of Venice' too; I foresee that it will be useful; and the 'Seven Lamps of Architecture.' I am catching my breath, with the swiftness of the way we go on. It is astonishing, what all clustered round a view of Milan Cathedral yesterday. By the way, Philip,—no hurry,—but by and by a stereoscope would be a good thing here. Let it be a little hand-glass, not a great instrument of unvarying routine and magnificent sameness."
Books came by packages and packages. Such books! The eyes of the two girls gloated over them, as they helped Mrs. Barclay unpack; the room grew full, with delightful disorder of riches; but none too much, for they began to feel their minds so empty that no amount of provision could be too generous.
"The room is getting to be running-over full. What will you do, Mrs.Barclay?"
"It is terrible when you have to sweep the carpet, isn't it? I must send for some book cases."
"You might let Mr. Midgin put up some—shelves I could stain them, and make them look very nice."
"Who is Mr. Midgin?"
"The carpenter."
"Oh! Well.—I think we had better send for him, Lois."
The door stood open into the kitchen, or dining-room rather, on account of the packing-cases which the girls were just moving out; then appeared the figure of Mrs. Marx in the opening.
"Lois, Charity ain't at home—How much beef are you goin' to want?"
"Beef?" said Lois, smiling at the transition in her thoughts.—"For salting, you mean?"
"For salting, and for smoking, and for mince-meat, and for pickling.What is the girl thinking of?"
"She is thinking of books just now, Mrs. Marx," suggested Mrs. Barclay.
"Books!" The lady stepped nearer and looked in. "Well, I declare! I should think you hadsome. What in all the world can you do with so many?"
"Just what we were considering. I think we must have the carpenter here, to put up some shelves."
"Well I should say that was plain. But when you have got 'em on the shelves, what next? What will you do with 'em then?"
"Take 'em down and read them, aunt Anne."
"Your life ain't as busy as mine, then, if you have time for all that.What's the good o' readin' so much?"
"There's so much to know, that we don't know!"
"I should like to know what,"—said Mrs. Marx, going round and picking up one book after another. "You've been to school, haven't you?"
Lois changed her tone.
"I'll talk to Charity about the beef, and let you know, aunt Anne."
"Well, come out to the other room and let me talk to you! Good afternoon, ma'am—I hope you don't let these girls make you too much worry.—Now, Lois" (after the door was shut between them and Mrs. Barclay), "I just want you to tell me what you and Madge are about?"
Lois told her, and Mrs. Marx listened with a judicial air; then observed gravely,
"'Seems to me, there ain't much sense in all that, Lois."
"O, yes, aunt Anne! there is."
"What's the use? What do you want to know more tongues than your own for, to begin with? you can't talk but in one at once. And spending your time in making marks on paper! I believe in girls goin' to school, and gettin' all they can there; but when school is done, then they have something else to see to. I'd rather have you raakin' quilts and gettin' ready to be married; dom' women's work."
"I do my work," said Lois gaily.
"Child, your head's gettin' turned. Mother, do you know the way Madge and Lois are goin' on?"
"I don't understand it," said Mrs. Armadale.
"I understand it. And I'll tell you. I like learning,—nobody better; but I want things kept in their places. And I tell you, if this is let to go on, it'll be like Jack's bean vine, and not stop at the top of the house; and they'll be like Jack, and go after to see, and never come back to common ground any more."
Mrs. Armadale sat looking unenlightened. Madge, who had come in midway of this speech, stood indignant.
"Aunt Anne, that's not like you! You read as much yourself as ever you can; and never can get books enough."
"I stick to English."
"English or French, what's the odds?"
"What was good enough for your fathers and mothers ought to be good enough for you."
"That won't do, aunt Anne," retorted Madge. "You were wanting aBerkshire pig a while ago, and I heard you talking of 'shorthorns.'"
"That's it. I'd like to hear you talking of shorthorns."
"If it is necessary, I could," said Lois; "but there are pleasanter things to talk about."
"There you are! But pictures won't help Madge make butter; and French is no use in a garden. It's all very well for some people, I suppose; but, mother, if these girls go on, they'll be all spoiled for their place in life. This lodger of yours is trying to make 'em like herself."
"I wish she could!" said Madge.
"That's it, mother; that's what I say. But she's one thing, and they're another; she lives in her world, which ain't Shampuashuh by a long jump, and they live in Shampuashuh, and have got to live there. Ain't it a pity to get their heads so filled with the other things that they'll be for ever out o' conceit o' their own?"
"It don't work so, aunt Anne," said Lois.
"It will work so. What use can all these krinkum-krankums be to you? Shampuashuh ain't the place for 'em. You'll be like the girl that got a new bonnet, and had to sit with her head out o' window to wear it."
Madge's cheeks grew red. Lois laughed.
"Daughter," said Mrs. Armadale, "'seems to me you are making a storm in a teapot."
Mrs. Marx laughed at that; then became quite serious again.
"I ain't doin' that," she said. "I never do. And I've no enmity against all manner of fiddle-faddling, if folks have got nothin' better to do. But 'tain't so with our girls. They work for their livin', and they've got to work; and what I say is, they're in a way to get to hate work, if they don't despise it, and in my judgment that's a poor business. It's going the wrong way to be happy. Mother, they ought to marry farmers; and they won't look at a farmer in all Shampuashuh, if you let 'em go on."
Lois remarked merrily that she did not want to look at a man anywhere.
"Then you ought. It's time. I'd like to see you married to a good, solid man, who would learn you to talk of shorthorns and Berkshires. Life's life, chickens; and it ain't the tinkle of a piano. All well enough for your neighbour in the other room; but you're a different sort."
Privately, Lois did not want to be of a different sort. The refinement, the information, the accomplishments, the grace of manner, which in a high degree belonged to Mrs. Barclay, seemed to her very desirable possessions and endowments; and the mental life of a person so enriched and gifted, appeared to her far to be preferred over a horizon bounded by cheese and bed-quilts. Mrs. Marx was not herself a narrow-minded woman, or one wanting in appreciation of knowledge and culture; but she was also a shrewd business woman, and what she had seen at the Isles of Shoals had possibly given her a key wherewith to find her way through certain problems. She was not sure but Lois had been a little touched by the attentions of that very handsome, fair-haired and elegant gentleman who had done Mrs. Marx the honour to take her into his confidence; she was jealous lest all this study of things unneeded in Shampuashuh life might have a dim purpose of growing fitness for some other. There she did Lois wrong, for no distant image of Mr. Caruthers was connected in her niece's mind with the delight of the new acquirements she was making; although Tom Caruthers had done his part, I do not doubt, towards Lois's keen perception of the beauty and advantage of such acquirements. She was not thinking of Tom, when she made her copies and studied her verbs; though if she had never known the society in which she met Tom and of which he was a member, she might not have taken hold of them so eagerly.
"Mother," she said when Mrs. Marx was gone, "are you afraid these new things will make me forget my duties, or make me unfit for them?"
Mrs. Armadale's mind was a shade more liberal than her daughter's, and she had not been at the Isles of Shoals. She answered somewhat hesitatingly,
"No, child—I don't know as I am. I don't see as they do. I don't see what use they will be to you; but maybe they'll be some."
"They are pleasure," said Lois.
"We don't live for pleasing ourselves, child."
"No, mother; but don't you think, if duties are not neglected, that we ought to educate ourselves all we can, and get all of every sort of good that we can, when we have the opportunity?"
"To be sure," said Mrs. Armadale; "if it ain't a temptation, it's a providence. Maybe you'll find a use for it you don't think. Only take care it ain't a temptation, Lois."
From that time Lois's studies were carried on with more systematic order. She would not neglect her duties, and the short winter days left her little spare time of daylight; therefore she rose long before daylight came. If anybody had been there to look, Lois might have been seen at four o'clock in the family room, which this winter rather lost its character of kitchen, seated at the table with her lamp and her books; the room warm and quiet, no noise but the snapping of the fire and breathing of the flames, and now and then the fall of a brand. And Lois sitting absorbed and intent, motionless, except when the above-mentioned falling brands obliged her to get up and put them in their places. Her drawing she left for another time of day; she could do that in company; in these hours she read and wrote French, and read pages and pages of history. Sometimes Madge was there too; but Lois always, from a very early hour until the dawn was advanced far enough for her to see to put Mrs. Barclay's room in order. Then with a sigh of pleasure Lois would turn down her lamp, and with another breath of hope and expectation betake herself to the next room to put all things in readiness for its owner's occupancy and use, which occupancy and use involved most delightful hours of reading and talking and instruction by and by. Making the fire, sweeping, brushing, dusting, regulating chairs and tables and books and trifles, drawing back the curtains and opening the shutters; which last, to be sure, she began with. And then Lois went to do the same offices for the family room, and to set the table for breakfast; unless Madge had already done it.
And then Lois brought her Bible and read to Mrs. Armadale, who by this time was in her chair by the fireside, and busy with her knitting. The knitting was laid down then, however; and Mrs. Armadale loved to take the book in her hands, upon her lap, while her granddaughter, leaning over it, read to her. They two had it alone; no other meddled with them. Charity was always in the kitchen at this time, and Madge often in her dairy, and neither of them inclined to share in the service which Lois always loved dearly to render. They two, the old and the young, would sit wholly engrossed with their reading and their talk, unconscious of what was going on around them; even while Charity and Madge were bustling in and out with the preparations for breakfast. Nothing of the bustle reached Mrs. Armadale or Lois, whose faces at such times had a high and sweet and withdrawn look, very lovely to behold. The hard features and wrinkled lines of the one face made more noticeable the soft bloom and delicate moulding of the other, while the contrast enhanced the evident oneness of spirit and interest which filled them both. When they were called to breakfast and moved to the table, then there was a difference. Both, indeed, showed a subdued sweet gravity; but Mrs. Armadale was wont also to be very silent and withdrawn into herself, or busied with inner communings; while Lois was ready with speech or action for everybody's occasions, and full of gentle ministry. Mrs. Barclay used to study them both, and be wonderingly busy with the contemplation.
It was Christmas eve. Lois had done her morning work by the lamplight, and was putting the dining-room, or sitting-room rather, in order; when Madge joined her and began to help.
"Is the other room ready?"
"All ready," said Lois.
"Are you doing that elm tree?"
"Yes."
"How do you get along?"
"I cannot manage it yet, to my satisfaction; but I will. O Madge, isn't it too delicious?"
"What? the drawing? Isn't it!!"
"I don't mean the drawing only. Everything. I am getting hold of French, and it's delightful. But the books! O Madge, the books! I feel as if I had been a chicken in his shell until now, and as if I were just getting my eyes open to see what the world is like."
"Whatisit like?" asked Madge, laughing. "My eyes are shut yet, I suppose, forIhaven't found out. You can tell me."
"Eyes that are open cannot help eyes that are shut. Besides, mine are only getting open."
"What do they see? Come, Lois, tell."
Lois stood still, resting on her broom handle.
"The world seems to me an immense battle-place, where wrong and right have been struggling; always struggling. And sometimes the wrong seems to cover the whole earth, like a flood, and there is nothing but confusion and horror; and then sometimes the floods part and one sees a little bit of firm ground, where grass and flowers might grow, if they had a chance. And in those spots there is generally some great, grand man, who has fought back the flood of wrong and made a clearing."
"Well, I do not understand all that one bit!" said Madge.
"I do not wonder," said Lois, laughing, "I do not understand it very clearly myself. I cannot blame you. But it is very curious, Madge, that the ancient Persians had just that idea of the world being a battle-place, and that wrong and right were fighting; or rather, that the Spirit of good and the Spirit of evil were struggling. Ormuzd was their name for the good Spirit, and Ahriman the other. It is very strange, for that is just the truth."
"Then why is it strange?" said downright Madge.
"Because they were heathen; they did not know the Bible."
"Is that what the Bible says? I didn't know it."
"Why, Madge, yes, you did. You know who is called the 'Prince of this world'; and you know Jesus 'was manifested that he might destroy the works of the devil'; and you know 'he shall reign till he has put all enemies under his feet.' But how should those old Persians know so much, with out knowing more? I'll tell you, Madge! You know, Enoch knew?"—
"No, I don't."
"Yes, you do! Enoch knew. And of course they all knew when they came out of the ark"—
"Who—the Persians?"
Lois broke out into a laugh, and began to move her broom again.
"What have you been reading, to put all this into your head?"
The broom stopped.
"Ancient history, and modern; parts here and there, in different books.Mrs. Barclay showed me where; and then we have talked"—
Lois began now to sweep vigorously.
"Lois, isshelike the people you used to see in New York? I mean, were they all like her?"
"Not all so nice."
"But like her?"
"Not in everything. No, they were not most of them so clever, and most of them did not know so much, and were not so accomplished."
"But they were like her in other things?"
"No," said Lois, standing still; "she is a head and shoulders above most of the women I saw; but they were of her sort, if that is what you mean."
"That is what I mean. She is not a bit like people here. We must seem very stupid to her, Lois."
"Shampuashuh people are not stupid."
"Well, aunt Anne isn't stupid; but she is not like Mrs. Barclay. And she don't want us to be like Mrs. Barclay."
"No danger!"—said Lois, very busy now at her work.
"But wouldn't youliketo be like Mrs. Barclay?"
"Yes."
"So would I."
"Well, we can, in the things that are most valuable," said Lois, standing still again for a moment to look at her sister.
"O, yes, books— But I would like to be graceful like Mrs. Barclay. You would call that not valuable; but I care more for it than for all the rest. Her beautiful manners."
"Shehasbeautiful manners," said Lois. "I do not think manners can be taught. They cannot be imitated."
"Why not?"
"O, they wouldn't be natural. And what suits one might not suit another. A very handsome nose of somebody else might not be good on my face. No, they would not be natural."
"You need not wish for anybody's nose but your own," said Madge. "Thatwill do, and so will mine, I'm thankful! But what makes her look so unhappy, Lois?"
"She does look unhappy."
"She looks as if she had lost all her friends."
"She has gotone, here," said Lois, sweeping away.
"But what good can you do her?"
"Nothing. It isn't likely that she will ever even know the fact."
"She's doing a good deal for us."
A little later, Mrs. Barclay came down to her room. She found it, as always, in bright order; the fire casting red reflections into every corner, and making pleasant contrast with the grey without. For it was cloudy and windy weather, and wintry neutral tints were all that could be seen abroad; the clouds swept along grey overhead, and the earth lay brown and bare below. But in Mrs. Barclay's room was the cheeriest play of light and colour; here it touched the rich leather bindings of books, there the black and white of an engraving; here it was caught in tin folds of the chintz curtains which were ruddy and purple in hue, and again it warmed up the old-fashioned furniture and lost itself in a brown tablecover. Mrs. Barclay's eye loved harmonies, and it found them even in this country-furnished room at Shampuashuh. Though, indeed, the piles of books came from afar, and so did the large portfolio of engravings, and Mrs. Barclay's desk was a foreigner. She sat in her comfortable chair before the fire and read her letters, which Lois had laid ready for her; and then she was called to breakfast.
Mrs. Barclay admired her surroundings here too, as she had often done before. The old lady, ungainly as her figure and uncomely as her face were, had yet a dignity in both; the dignity of a strong and true character, which with abundant self-respect, had not, and never had, any anxious concern about the opinion of any human being. Whoever feels himself responsible to the one Great Ruler alone, anddoesfeel that responsibility, will be both worthy of respect and sure to have it in his relations with his fellows. Such tribute Mrs. Barclay paid Mrs. Armadale. Her eye passed on and admired Madge, who was very handsome in her neat, smart home dress; and rested on Lois finally with absolute contentment. Lois was in a nut-brown stuff dress, with a white knitted shawl bound round her shoulders in the way children sometimes have, the ends crossed on the breast and tied at the back of the waist. Brown and white was her whole figure, except the rosy flush on cheeks and lips; the masses of fluffy hair were reddish-brown, a shade lighter than her dress. At Charity Mrs. Barclay did not look much, unless for curiosity; she was a study of a different sort.
"What delicious rolls!" said Mrs. Barclay. "Are these your work, MissCharity?"
"I can make as good, I guess," said that lady; "but these ain't mine.Lois made 'em."
"Lois!" said Mrs. Barclay. "I did not know that this was one of your accomplishments."
"Isthatwhat you call an accomplishment," said Charity.
"Certainly. What do you mean by it?"
"I thought an accomplishment was something that one could accomplish that was no use."
"I am sorry you have such an opinion of accomplishments."
"Well, ain't it true? Lois, maybe Mrs. Barclay don't care for sausages.There's cold meat."
"Your sausages are excellent. I likesuchsausage very much."
"I always think sausages ain't sausages if they ain't stuffed. Aunt Anne won't have the plague of it; but I say, if a thing's worth doing at all, it's worth doing the best way; and there's no comparison in my mind."
"So you judge everything by its utility."
"Don't everybody, that's got any sense?"
"And therefore you condemn accomplishments?"
"Well, I don't see the use. O, if folks have got nothing else to do, and just want to make a flare-up—but for us in Shampuashuh, what's the good of them? For Lois and Madge, now? I don't make it out."
"You forget, your sisters may marry, and go somewhere else to live; and then"—
"I don't know what Madge'll do; but Lois ain't goin' to marry anybody but a real godly man, and what use'll her accomplishments be to her then?"
"Why, just as much use, I hope," said Mrs. Barclay, smiling. "Why not? The more education a woman has, the more fit she is to content a man of education, anywhere."
"Where's she to get a man of education?" said Charity. "What you mean by that don't grow in these parts. We ain't savages exactly, but there ain't many accomplishments scattered through the village. Unless, as you say, bread-makin's one. We do know how to make bread, and cake, with anybody; Lois said she didn't see a bit o' real good cake all the while she was in Gotham; and we can cure hams, and we understand horses and cows, and butter and cheese, and farming, of course, and that; but you won't find your man of education here, or Lois won't."
"She may find him somewhere else," said Mrs. Barclay, looking atCharity over her coffee-cup.
"Then he won't be the right kind," persisted Charity; while Lois laughed, and begged they would not discuss the question of her possible "finds"; but Mrs. Barclay asked, "How not the right kind?"
"Well, every place has its sort," said Charity. "Our sort is religious. I don't know whether we're anybetterthan other folks, but we're religious; and your men of accomplishments ain't, be they?"
"Depends on what you mean by religious."
"Well, I mean godly. Lois won't ever marry any but a godly man."
"I hope not!" said Mrs. Armadale.
"Shewon't," said Charity; "but you had better talk to Madge, mother. I am not so sure of her. Lois is safe."
"'The fashion of this world passeth away,'" said the old lady, with a gravity which was yet sweet; "'but the word of the Lord endureth for ever.'"
Mrs. Barclay was now silent. This morning, contrary to her usual wont, she kept her place at the table, though the meal was finished. She was curious to see the ways of the household, and felt herself familiar enough with the family to venture to stay. Charity began to gather her cups.
"Did you give aunt Anne's invitation? Hand along the plates, Madge, and carry your butter away. We've been for ever eating breakfast."
"Talking," said Mrs. Barclay, with a smile.
"Talking's all very well, but I think one thing at a time is enough. It is as much as most folks can attend to. Lois, do give me the plates; and give your invitation."
"Aunt Anne wants us all to come and take tea with her to-night," said Lois; "and she sent her compliments to Mrs. Barclay, and a message that she would be very glad to see her with the rest of us."
"I am much obliged, and shall be very happy to go."
"'Tain't a party," said Charity, who was receiving plates and knives and forks from Lois's hand, and making them elaborately ready for washing; while Madge went back and forth clearing the table of the remains of the meal. "It's nothin' but to go and take our tea there instead of here. We save the trouble of gettin' it ready, and have the trouble of going; that's our side; and what aunt Anne has for her side she knows best herself. I guess she's proud of her sweetmeats."
Mrs. Barclay smiled again. "It seems parties are much the same thing, wherever they are given," she said.
"This ain't a party," repeated Charity. Madge had now brought a tub of hot water, and the washing up of the breakfast dishes was undertaken by Lois and Charity with a despatch and neatness and celerity which the looker-on had never seen equalled.
"Parties do not seem to be Shampuashuh fashion," she remarked. "I have not heard of any since I have been here."
"No," said Charity. "We have more sense."
"I am not sure that it shows sense," remarked Lois, carrying off a pile of clean hot plates to the cupboard.
"What's the use of 'em?" said the elder sister.
"Cultivation of friendly feeling," suggested Mrs. Barclay.
"If folks ain't friendly already, the less they see of one another the better they'll agree," said Charity.
"Miss Charity, I am afraid you do not love your fellow-creatures," saidMrs. Barclay, much amused.
"As well as they love me, I guess," said Charity.
"Mrs. Armadale," said Mrs. Barclay, appealing to the old lady who sat in her corner knitting as usual,—"do not these opinions require some correction?"
"Charity speaks what she thinks," said Mrs. Armadale, scratching behind her ear with the point of her needle, as she was very apt to do when called upon.
"But that is not the right way to think, is it?"
"It's the natural way," said the old lady. "It is only the fruit of the Spirit that is 'love, joy, peace.' 'Tain't natural to love what you don't like."
"What you don't like! no," said Mrs. Barclay; "that is a pitch of loveI never dreamed of."
"'If ye love them that love you, what thank have ye?'" said the old lady quietly.
"Mother's off now," said Charity; "out of anybody's understanding. One would think I was more unnatural than the rest of folks!"
"Shesaidyou were more natural, thats all," said Lois, with a sly smile.
The talk ceased. Mrs. Barclay looked on for a few minutes more, marvelling to see the quick dexterity with which everything was done by the two girls; until the dishes were put away, the tcib and towels were gone, the table was covered with its brown cloth, a few crumbs were brushed from the carpet; and Charity disappeared in one direction and Lois in another. Mrs. Barclay herself withdrew to her room and her thoughts.
The day was a more than commonly busy one, so that the usual hours of lessons in Mrs. Barclay's room did not come off. It was not till late in the afternoon that Lois went to her friend, to tell her that Mrs. Marx would send her little carriage in about an hour to fetch her mother, and that Mrs. Barclay also might ride if she would. Mrs. Barclay was sitting in her easy-chair before the fire, doing nothing, and on receipt of this in formation turned a very shadowed face towards the bringer of it.
"What will you say to me, if after all your aunt's kindness in asking me, I do not go?"
"Not go? You are not well?" inquired Lois anxiously.
"I am quite well—too well!"
"But something is the matter?"
"Nothing new."
"Dear Mrs. Barclay, can I help you?"
"I do not think you can. I am tired, Lois!"
"Tired! O, that is spending so much time giving lessons to Madge and me! I am so sorry."
"It is nothing of the kind," said Mrs. Barclay, stretching out her hand to take one of Lois's, which she retained in her own. "If anything would take away this tired feeling, it is just that, Lois. Nothing refreshes me so much, or does me so much good."
"Then what tires you, dear Mrs. Barclay?"
Lois's face showed unaffected anxiety. Mrs. Barclay gave the hand she held a little squeeze.
"It is nothing new, my child," she said, with a faint smile. "I am tired of life."
Looking at the girl, as she spoke, she saw how unable her listener's mind was to comprehend her. Lois looked puzzled.
"You do not know what I mean?" she said.
"Hardly—"
"I hope you never will. It is a miserable feeling. It is like what I can fancy a withered autumn leaf feeling, if it were a sentient and intelligent thing;—of no use to the branch which holds it—freshness and power gone—no reason for existence left—its work all done. Only I never did any work, and was never of any particular use."
"O, you cannot mean that!" cried Lois, much troubled and perplexed.
"I keep going over to-day that little hymn you showed me, that was found under the dead soldier's pillow. The words run in my head, and wake echoes.
'I lay me down to sleep,With little thought or careWhether the waking findMe here, or there.
'A bowing, burdened head—'"
But here the speaker broke off abruptly, and for a few minutes Lois saw, or guessed, that she could not go on.
"Never mind that verse," she said, beginning again; "it is the next. Do you remember?—
'My good right hand forgetsIts cunning now.To march the weary march,I know not how.
'I am not eager, bold,Nor brave; all that is past.I am ready not to do,At last, at last!—'
I am too young to feel so," Mrs. Barclay went on, after a pause whichLois did not break; "but that is how I feel to-day."
"I do not think one need—or ought—at any age," Lois said gently; but her words were hardly regarded.
"Do you hear that wind?" said Mrs. Barclay. "It has been singing and sighing in the chimney in that way all the afternoon."
"It is Christmas," said Lois. "Yes, it often sings so, and I like it. I like it especially at Christmas time."
"It carries me back—years. It takes me to my old home, when I was a child. I think it must have sighed so round the house then. It takes me to a time when I was in my fresh young life and vigour—the unfolding leaf—when life was careless and cloudless; and I have a kind of home-sickness to-night for my father and mother.—Of the days since that time, I dare not think."
Lois saw that rare tears had gathered in her friend's eyes, slowly and few, as they come to people with whom hope is a lost friend; and her heart was filled with a great pang of sympathy. Yet she did not know how to speak. She recalled the verse of the soldier's hymn which Mrs. Barclay had passed over—
"A bowing, burdened head,That only asks to rest,Unquestioning, uponA loving breast."
She thought she knew what the grief was; but how to touch it? She sat still and silent, and perhaps even so spoke her sympathy better than any words could have done it. And perhaps Mrs. Barclay felt it so, for she presently went on after a manner which was not like her usual reserve.
"O that wind! O that wind! It sweeps away all that has been between, and puts home and my childhood before me. But it makes me home-sick, Lois!"
"Cannot you go on with the hymn, dear Mrs. Barclay? You know how it goes,—
'My half day's work is done;And this is all my part—I give a patient GodMy patient heart.'"
"What does he want with it?" said the weary woman beside her.
"What? O, it is the very thing he wants of us, and of you; the one thing he cares about! That we would love him."
"I have not done a half day's work," said the other; "and my heart is not patient. It is only tired, and dead."
"It is not that," said Lois. "How very, very good you have been toMadge and me!"
"You have been good to me. And, as your grandmother quoted this morning, no thanks are due when we only love those who love us. My heart does not seem to be alive, Lois. You had better go to your aunt's without me, dear. I should not be good company."
"But I cannot leave you so!" exclaimed Lois; and she left her seat and sank upon her knees at her friend's side, still clasping the hand that had taken hers. "Dear Mrs. Barclay, there is help."
"If you could give it, there would be, you pretty creature!" said Mrs. Barclay, with her other hand pushing the beautiful masses of red-brown hair right and left from Lois's brow.
"But there is One who can give it, who is stronger than I, and loves you better."
"What makes you think so?"
"Because he has promised. 'Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy-laden, and I will give you rest.'"
Mrs. Barclay said nothing, but she shook her head.
"It is a promise," Lois repeated. "It is a PROMISE. It is the King's promise; and he never breaks his word."
"How do you know, my child? You have never been where I am."
"No," said Lois, "not there. I have never felt justso."
"I have had all that life could give. I have had it, and knew I had it.And it is all gone. There is nothing left."
"There is this left," said Lois eagerly, "which you have not tried."
"What?"
"The promise of Christ."
"My dear, you do not know what you are talking of. Life is in its spring with you."
"But I know the King's promise," said Lois.
"How do you know it?"
"I have tried it."
"But you have never had any occasion to try it, you heart-sound creature!" said Mrs. Barclay, with again a caressing, admiring touch of Lois's brow.
"O, but indeed I have. Not in need like yours—I have never touchedthat—I never felt like that; but in other need, as great and as terrible. And I know, and everybody else who has ever tried knows, that the Lord keeps his word."
"How have you tried?" Mrs. Barclay asked abstractedly.
"I needed the forgiveness of sin," said Lois, letting her voice fall a little, "and deliverance from it."
"You!" said Mrs. Barclay.
"I was as unhappy as anybody could be till I got it."
"When was that?"
"Four years ago."
"Are you much different now from what you were before?"
"Entirely."
"I cannot imagine you in need of forgiveness. What had you done?"
"I had done nothing whatever that I ought to have done. I loved only myself,—I meanfirst,—and lived only to myself and my own pleasure, and did my own will."
"Whose will do you now? your grandmother's?"
"Not grandmother's first. I do God's will, as far as I know it."
"And therefore you think you are forgiven?"
"I don'tthink, I know," said Lois, with a quick breath. "And it is not 'therefore' at all; it is because I am covered, or my sin is, with the blood of Christ. And I love him; and he makes me happy."
"It is easy to make you happy, dear. To me there is nothing left in the world, nor the possibility of anything. That wind is singing a dirge in my ears; and it sweeps over a desert. A desert where nothing green will grow any more!"
The words were spoken very calmly; there was no emotion visible that either threatened or promised tears; a dull, matter-of-fact, perfectly clear and quiet utterance, that almost broke Lois's heart. The water that was denied to the other eyes sprang to her own.
"It was in the wilderness that the people were fed with manna," she said, with a great gush of feeling in both heart and voice. "It was when they were starving and had no food, just then, that they got the bread from heaven."
"Manna does not fall now-a-days," said Mrs. Barclay with a faint smile.
"O yes, it does! There is your mistake, because you do not know. Itdoescome. Look here, Mrs. Barclay—"
She sprang up, went for a Bible which lay on one of the tables, and, dropping on her knees again by Mrs. Barclay's side, showed her an open page.
"Look here—'I am the bread of life; he that cometh to me shall never hunger; and he that believeth on me shall never thirst… This is the bread which cometh down from heaven, that a man may eat thereof and not die.' Not die of weariness, nor of anything else."
Mrs. Barclay did look with a little curiosity at the words Lois held before her, but then she put down the book and took the girl in her arms, holding her close and laying her own head on Lois's shoulder. Whether the words had moved her, Lois could not tell, or whether it was the power of her own affection and sympathy; Mrs. Barclay did not speak, and Lois did not dare add another word. They were still, wrapped in each other's arms, and one or two of Lois's tears wet the other woman's cheek; and there was no movement made by either of them; until the door was suddenly opened and they sprang apart.
"Here's Mr. Midgin," announced the voice of Miss Charity. "Shall he come in? or ain't there time? Of all things, why can't folks choose convenient times for doin' what they have to do! It passes me. It's because it's a sinful world, I suppose. But what shall I tell him? to go about his business, and come New Year's, or next Fourth of July?"
"You do not want to see him now?" said Lois hastily. But Mrs. Barclay roused herself, and begged that he might come in. "It is the carpenter, I suppose," said she.
Mr. Midgin was a tall, loose-jointed, large-featured man, with an undecided cast of countenance, and slow movements; which fitted oddly to his big frame and powerful muscles. He wore his working suit, which hung about him in a flabby way, and entered Mrs. Barclay's room with his hat on. Hat and all, his head made a little jerk of salutation to the lady.
"Good arternoon!" said he. "Sun'thin' I kin do here?"
"Yes, Mr. Midgin—I left word for you three days ago," said Lois.
"Jest so. I heerd. And here I be. Wall, I never see a room with so many books in it! Lois, you must be like a cow in clover, if you're half as fond of 'em as I be."
"You are fond of reading, Mr. Midgin?" said Mrs. Barclay.
"Wall, I think so. But what's in 'em all?" He came a step further into the room and picked up a volume from the table. Mrs. Barclay watched him. He opened the book, and stood still, eagerly scanning the page, for a minute or two.
"'Lamps of Architectur'," said he, looking then at the title-page;—"that's beyond me. The only lamps of architectur thatIever see, in Shampuashuh anyway, is them that stands up at the depot, by the railroad; but here's 'truth,' and 'sacrifice,' and I don' know what all; 'hope' and 'love,' I expect. Wall, them's good lamps to light up anythin' by; only I don't make out whatever they kin have to do with buildin's." He picked up an other volume.