There was a soft ring in Lois's voice; it might be an echo of the trumpets and cymbals of which she had been speaking. Yet not done for effect; it was unconscious, and delicate as indescribable, for which reason it had the greater power. The party remained silent for a few minutes, all of them; during which a killdeer on the fence uttered his little shout of gratulation; and the wild, salt smell coming from the Sound and the not distant ocean, joined with the silence and Lois's hymn, gave a peculiar impression of solitude and desolation to at least one of the party. The cart entered an enclosure, and halted before a small building at the edge of the shore, just above high-water mark. There were several such buildings scattered along the shore at intervals, some enclosed, some not. The whole breadth of the Sound lay in view, blinking under the summer sun; yet the air was far fresher here than it had been in the village. The tide was half out; a wide stretch of wet sand, with little pools in the hollows, intervened between the rocks and the water; the rocks being no magnificent buttresses of the land, but large and small boulders strewn along the shore edge, hung with seaweed draperies; and where there were not rocks there was a growth of rushes on a mud bottom. The party were helped out of the cart one by one, and the strangers surveyed the prospect.
"'Afar in the desert,' this is, I declare," said the gentleman.
"Might as well be," echoed his wife. "Whatever do you come here for?" she said, turning to Lois; "and what do you do when you are here?"
"Get some clams and have supper."
"Clams!"—with an inimitable accent. "Where do you get clams?"
"Down yonder—at the edge of the rushes."
"Who gets them? and how do you get them?"
"I guess I shall get them to-day. O, we do it with a hoe."
Lois stayed for no more, but ran in. The interior room of the house, which was very large for a bathing-house, was divided in two by a partition. In the inner, smaller room, Lois began busily to change her dress. On the walls hung a number of bathing suits of heavy flannel, one of which she appropriated. Charity came in after her.
"You ain't a goin' for clams, Lois? Well, I wouldn't, if I was you."
"Why not?"
"I wouldn't make myself such a sight, for folks to see."
"I don't at all do it for folks to see, but that folks may eat. We have brought 'em here, and now we must give them something for supper."
"Are you goin' with bare feet?"
"Why not?" said Lois, laughing. "Do you think I am going to spoil my best pair of shoes for vanity's sake?" And she threw off shoes and stockings as she spoke, and showed a pair of pretty little white feet, which glanced coquettishly under the blue flannel.
"Lois, what's brought these folks here?"
"I am sure I don't know."
"I wish they'd stayed where they belong. That woman's just turning up her nose at every blessed thing she sees."
"It won't hurt the Sound!" said Lois, laughing.
"What did they come for?"
"I can't tell; but, Charity, it will never do to let them go away feeling they got nothing by coming. So you have the kettle boiled, will you, and the table all ready—and I'll try for the clams."
"They won't like 'em."
"Can't help that."
"And what am I going to do with Mr. Sears?"
"Give him his supper of course."
"Along with all the others?"
"You must. You cannot set two tables."
"There's aunt Anne!" exclaimed Charity; and in the next minute aunt Anne came round to them by the front steps; for each half of the bathing-house had its own door of approach, as well as a door of communication. Mrs. Marx came in, surveyed Lois, and heard Charity's statement.
"These things will happen in the best regulated families," she remarked, beginning also to loosen her dress.
"What are you going to do, aunt Anne?"
"Going after clams, with Lois. We shall want a bushel or less; and we can't wait till the moon rises, to eat 'em."
"And how am I going to set the table with them all there?"
Mrs. Marx laughed. "I expect they're like cats in a strange garret. Set your table just as usual, Charry; push 'em out o' the way if they get in it. Now then, Lois!"
And, slipping down the steps and away off to the stretch of mud where the rushes grew, two extraordinary, flannel-clad, barefooted figures, topped with sun-bonnets and armed with hoes and baskets, were presently seen to be very busy there about something. Charity opened the door of communication between the two parts of the house, and surveyed the party. Mrs. Barclay sat on the step outside, looking over the plain of waters, with her head in her hand. Mrs. Armadale was in a rocking-chair, just within the door, placidly knitting. Mr. and Mrs. Lenox, somewhat further back, seemed not to know just what to do with themselves; and Madge, holding a little aloof, met her sister's eye with an expression of despair and doubt. Outside, at the foot of the steps, where Mrs. Barclay sat, lounged the ox driver.
"Ben here afore?" he asked confidentially of the lady.
"Yes, once or twice. I never came in an ox cart before."
"I guess you hain't," he replied, chewing a blade of rank grass which he had pulled for the purpose. "My judgment is we had a fust-rate entertainment, comin' down."
"I quite agree with you."
"Now in anythin'butan ox cart, you couldn't ha' had it."
"No, not so well, certainly."
"Icouldn't ha' had it, anyway, withouten we'd come so softly. I declare, I believe them critters stepped soft o' purpose. It's better'n a book, to hear that girl talk, now, ain't it?"
"Much better than many books."
"She's got a lot o' 'em inside her head. That beats me! She allays was smart, Lois was; but I'd no idee she was so full o' book larnin'. Books is a great thing!" And he heaved a sigh.
"Do you have time to read much yourself, sir?"
"Depends on the book," he said, with a bit of a laugh. "Accordin' to that, I get much or little. No; in these here summer days a man can't do much at books; the evenin's short, you see, and the days is long; and the days is full o' work. The winter's the time for readin'. I got hold o' a book last winter that was wuth a great deal o' time, and got it. I never liked a book better. That was Rollin's 'Ancient History.'"
"Ah!" said Mrs. Barclay. "So you enjoyed that?"
"Ever read it?"
"Yes."
"Didn't you enjoy it?"
"I believe I like Modern history better."
"I've read some o' that too," said he meditatively. "It ain't so different. 'Seems to me, folks is allays pretty much alike; only we call things by different names. Alexander the Great, now,—he warn't much different from Napoleon Buonaparte."
"Wasn't he a better man?" inquired Mr. Lenox, putting his head out at the door.
"Wall, I don' know; it's difficult, you know, to judge of folk's insides; but I don't make much count of a man that drinks himself to death at thirty."
"Haven't you any drinking in Shampuashuh?"
"Wall, there ain't much; and what there is, is done in the dark, like.You won't find no rum-shops open."
"Indeed! How long has the town been so distinguished?"
"I guess it's five year. Iknowit is; for it was just afore we put in our last President. Then we voted liquor shouldn't be president in Shampuashuh."
"Do you get along any better for it?"
"Wall"—slowly—"I should say we did. There ain't no quarrellin', nor fightin', nor anybody took up for the jail, nor no one livin' in the poorhouse—'thout it's some tramp on his way to some place where thereisliquor. An'hedon't want to stay."
"What are those two figures yonder among the grass?" Mrs. Lenox now asked; she also having come out of the house in search of objects of interest, the interior offering none.
"Them?" said Mr. Sears. "Them's Lois and her aunt. Their baskets is gettin' heavy, too. I'll make the fire for ye, Miss Charity," he cried, lifting his voice; and therewith disappeared.
"What are they doing?" Mrs. Lenox asked, in a lower tone.
"Digging clams," Mrs. Barclay informed her.
"Digging clams! How do they dig them?"
"With a hoe, I believe."
"I ought to go and offer my services," said the gentleman, rising.
"Do not think of it," said Mrs. Barclay. "You could not go without plunging into wet, soft mud; the clams are found only there, I believe."
"How dotheygo?"
"Barefoot-dressed for it."
"_Un_dressed for it," said Mrs. Lenox. "Barefoot in the mud! Could you have conceived it!"
"They say the mud is warm," Mrs. Barclay returned, keeping back a smile.
"But how horrid!"
"I am told it is very good sport. The clams are shy, and endeavour to take flight when they hear the strokes of the hoe; so that it comes to a trial of speed between the pursuer and the pursued; which is quite exciting."
"I should think, if I could see a clam, I could pick it up," Mrs. Lenox said scornfully.
"Yes; you cannot see them."
"Do you mean, they run awayunder ground?"
"So I am told."
"How can they? they have no feet."
Mrs. Barclay could not help laughing now, and confessed her ignorance of the natural powers of the clam family.
"Where is that old man gone to make his fire? didn't he say he was going to make a fire?"
"Yes; in the cooking-house."
"Where is that?" And Mrs. Lenox came down the steps and went to explore. A few yards from the bathing-house, just within the enclosure fence, she found a small building, hardly two yards square, but thoroughly built and possessing a chimney. The door stood open; within was a cooking-stove, in which fire was roaring; a neat pile of billets of wood for firing, a tea-kettle, a large iron pot, and several other kitchen utensils.
"What is this for?" inquired Mrs. Lenox, looking curiously in.
"Wall, I guess we're goin' to hev supper by and by; ef the world don't come to an end sooner than I expect, we will, sure. I'm a gettin' ready."
"And is this place built and arranged just for the sake of having supper, as you call it, down here once in a while?"
"Couldn't be no better arrangement," said Mr. Sears. "This stove draws first-rate."
"But this is a great deal of trouble. I should think they would take their clams home and have them there."
"Some folks doos," returned Mr. Sears. "These here folks knows what's good. Wait till you see. I tell you! long clams, fresh digged, and b'iled as soon as they're fetched in, is somethin' you never see beat."
"Longclams," repeated the lady. "Are they not the usual sort?"
"Depends on what you're used to. These is usual here, and I'm glad on't. Round clams ain't nowheres alongside o' 'em."
He went off to fill the kettle, and the lady returned slowly round the house to the steps and the door, which were on the sea side. Mr. Lenox had gone in and was talking to Mrs. Armadale; Mrs. Barclay was in her old position on the steps, looking out to sea. There was a wonderful light of westering rays on land and water; a rich gleam from brown rock and green seaweed; a glitter and fresh sparkle on the waves of the incoming tide; an indescribable freshness and life in the air and in the light; a delicious invigoration in the salt breath of the ocean. Mrs. Barclay sat drinking it all in, like one who had been long athirst. Mrs. Lenox stood looking, half cognizant of what was before her, more than half impatient and scornful of it; yet even on her the witchery of the place and the scene was not without its effect.
"Do you come here often?" she asked Mrs. Barclay. .
"Never so often as I would like."
"I should think you would be tired to death!"
Then, as Mrs. Barclay made no answer, she looked at her watch.
"Our train is not till ten o'clock," she remarked.
"Plenty of time," said the other. And then there was silence; and the sun's light grew more westering, and the sparkle on earth and water more fresh, and the air only more and more sweet; till two figures were discerned approaching the bathing-house, carrying hoes slung over their shoulders, and baskets, evidently filled, in their hands. They went round the house towards the cook-house; and Mrs. Barclay came down from her seat and went to meet them there, Mrs. Lenox following.
Two such figures! Sun-bonnets shading merry faces, flushed with business; blue flannel bathing-suits draping very unpicturesquely the persons, bare feet stained with mud,—baskets full of the delicate fish they had been catching.
"What a quantity!" exclaimed Mrs. Barclay.
"Yes, because I had aunt Anne to help. We cannot boil them all at once, but that is all the better. They will come hot and hot."
"You don't mean that you are going to cook all those?" said Mrs. Lenox incredulously.
"There will not be one too many," said Lois. "You do not know long clams yet."
"They are ugly things!" said the other, with a look of great disgust into the basket. "I don't think I could touch them."
"There's no obligation," responded here Mrs. Marx. She had thrown one basketful into a huge pan, and was washing them free from the mud and sand of their original sphere. "It's a free country. But looks don't prove much—neither at the shore nor anywhere else. An ugly shell often covers a good fish. So I find it; and t'other way."
"How do you get them?" inquired Mr. Lenox, who also came now to the door of the cook-house. Lois made her escape. "I see you make use of hoes."
"Yes," said Mrs. Marx, throwing her clams about in the water with great energy; "we dig for 'em. See where the clam lives, and then drive at him, and don't be slow about it; and then when the clam spits at you, you know you're on his heels—or on his track, I should say; and you take care of your eyes and go ahead, till you catch up with him; and then you've got him. And every one you throw into your basket you feel gladder and gladder; in fact, as the basket grows heavy, your heart grows light. And that's diggin' for long clams."
"The best part of it is the hunt, isn't it?"
"I'll take your opinion on that after supper."
Mr. Lenox laughed, and he and his wife sauntered round to the front again. The freshness, the sweetness, the bright rich colouring of sky and water and land, the stillness, the strangeness, the novelty, all moved Mr. Lenox to say,
"I would not have missed this for a hundred dollars!"
"Missed what?" asked his wife.
"This whole afternoon."
"It's one way that people live, I suppose."
"Yes, for they really do live; there is no stagnation; that is one thing that strikes me."
"Don't you want to buy a farm here, and settle down?" asked Mrs. Lenox scornfully. "Live on hymns and long clams?"
Meanwhile the interior of the bathing-house was changing its aspect. Part of the partition of boards had been removed and a long table improvised, running the length of the house, and made of planks laid on trestles. White cloths hid the rudeness of this board, and dishes and cups and viands were giving it a most hospitable look. A whiff of coffee aroma came now and then through the door at the back of the house, which opened near the place of cookery; piles of white bread and brown gingerbread, and golden butter and rosy ham and new cheese, made a most abundant and inviting display; and, after the guests were seated, Mr. Sears came in bearing a great dish of the clams, smoking hot.
Well, Mrs. Lenox was hungry, through the combined effects of salt air and an early dinner; she found bread and butter and coffee and ham most excellent, but looked askance at the dish of clams; which, however, she saw emptied with astonishing rapidity. Noticing at last a striking heap of shells beside her husband's plate, the lady's fastidiousness gave way to curiosity; and after that,—it was well that another big dishful was coming, orsomebodywould have been obliged to go short.
At ten o'clock that evening Mr. and Mrs. Lenox took the night train toBoston.
"I never passed a pleasanter afternoon in my life," was the gentleman's comment as the train started.
"Pretty faces go a great way always with you men!" answered his wife.
"There is something more than a pretty face there. And she is improved—changed, somehow—since a year ago. What do you think now of your brother's choice, Julia?"
"It would have been his ruin!" said the lady violently.
"I declare I doubt it. I am afraid he'll never find a better. I am afraid you have done him mistaken service."
"George, this girl isnobody."
"She is a lady. And she is intelligent, and she is cultivated, and she has excellent manners. I see no fault at all to be found. Tom does not need money."
"She is nobody, nevertheless, George! It would have been miserable for Tom to lose all the advantage he is going to have with his wife, and to marry this girl whom no one knows, and who knows nobody."
"I am sorry for poor Tom!"
"George, you are very provoking. Tom will live to thank mamma and me all his life."
"Do you know, I don't believe it. I am glad to seeshe'sall right, anyhow. I was afraid at the Isles she might have been bitten."
"You don't know anything about it," returned his wife sharply. "Women don't show.Ithink she was taken with Tom."
"I hope not!" said the gentleman; "that's all I have to say."
After that summer day, the time sped on smoothly at Shampuashuh; until the autumn coolness had replaced the heat of the dog days, and hay harvest and grain harvest were long over, and there began to be a suspicion of frost in the air. Lois had gathered in her pears, and was garnering her apples. There were two or three famous apple trees in the Lothrop old garden, the fruit of which kept sound and sweet all through the winter, and was very good to eat.
One fair day in October, Mrs. Barclay, wanting to speak with Lois, was directed to the garden and sought her there. The day was as mild as summer, without summer's passion, and without spring's impulses of hope and action. A quiet day; the air was still; the light was mellow, not brilliant; the sky was clear, but no longer of an intense blue; the little racks of cloud were lying supine on its calm depths, apparently having nowhere to go and nothing to do. The driving, sweeping, changing forms of vapour, which in spring had come with rain and in summer had come with thunder, had all disappeared; and these little delicate lines of cloud lay purposeless and at rest on the blue. Nature had done her work for the year; she had grown the grass and ripened the grain, and manufactured the wonderful juices in the tissues of the fruit, and laid a new growth of woody fibre round the heart of the trees. She was resting now, as it were, content with her work. And so seemed Lois to be doing, at the moment Mrs. Barclay entered the garden. It was unusual to find her so. I suppose the witching beauty of the day beguiled her. But it was of another beauty Mrs. Barclay thought, as she drew near the girl.
A short ladder stood under one of the apple trees, upon which Lois had been mounting to pluck her fruit. On the ground below stood two large baskets, full now of the ruddy apples, shining and beautiful. Beside them, on the dry turf, sat Lois with her hands in her lap; and Mrs. Barclay wondered at her as she drew near.
Yet it is not too easy to tell why, at least so as to make the reader get at the sense of the words. I have the girl's image before my eyes, mentally, but words have neither form nor colour; how shall I paint with them? It was not the beauty of mere form and colour, either, that struck Mrs. Barclay in Lois's face. You may easily see more regular features and more dazzling complexion. It was not any particular brilliance of eye, or piquancy of expression. There was a soundness and fulness of young life; that is not so uncommon either. There was a steadfast strength and sweetness of nature. There was an unconscious, innocent grace, that is exceedingly rare. And a high, noble expression of countenance and air and movement, such as can belong only to one whose thoughts and aims never descend to pettinesses; who assimilates nobility by being always concerned with what is noble. And then, the face was very fair; the ruddy brown hair very rich and abundant; the figure graceful and good; all the spiritual beauty I have been endeavouring to describe had a favouring groundwork of nature to display itself upon. Mrs. Barclay's steps grew slower and slower as she came near, that she might prolong the view, which to her was so lovely. Then Lois looked at her and slightly smiled.
"Lois, my dear, what are you doing?"
"Not exactly nothing, Mrs. Barclay; though it looks like it. Such a day one cannot bear to go in-doors!"
"You are gathering your apples?"
"I have got done for to-day."
"What are you studying, here beside your baskets? What beautiful apples!"
"Aren't they? These are our Royal Reddings; they are good for eating and cooking, and they keep perfectly. If only they are picked off by hand."
"What were you studying, Lois? May I not know?" Mrs. Barclay took an apple and a seat on the turf beside the girl.
"Hardly studying. Only musing—as such a day makes one muse. I was thinking, Mrs. Barclay, what use I could make of my life."
"Whatuse?Can you make better use of it than you are doing, in taking care of Mrs. Armadale?"
"Yes—as things are now. But in the common course of things I should outlive grandmamma."
"Then you will marry somebody, and take care of him."
"Very unlikely, I think."
"May I ask, why?"
"I do not know anybody that is the sort of man I could marry."
"What do you require?" asked Mrs. Barclay.
"A great deal, I suppose," said Lois slowly. "I have never studied that; I was not studying it just now. But I was thinking, what might be the best way of making myself of some use in the world. Foolish, too."
"Why so?"
"It is no use for us to lay plans for our lives; not much use for us to lay plans for anything. They are pretty sure to be broken up."
"Yes," said Mrs. Barclay, sighing. "I wonder why!"
"I suppose, because they do not fall in with God's plans for us."
"His plans for us," repeated Mrs. Barclay slowly. "Do you believe in such things? That would mean, individual plans, Lois; for you individually, and for me?"
"Yes, Mrs. Barclay—that is what I believe."
"It is incomprehensible to me."
"Why should it be?"
"To think that the Highest should concern him self with such small details."
"It is just because he is the Highest, and so high, that he can.Besides—do we know whataresmall details?"
"But why should he care what becomes of us?" said Mrs. Barclay gloomily.
"O, do you ask that? When he is Love itself, and would have the very best things for each one of us?"
"We don't have them, I am sure."
"Because we will not, then. To have them, we must fall in with his plans."
"My dear Lois, do you know that you are talking the profoundest mysteries?"
"No. They are not mysteries to me. The Bible says all I have been saying."
"That is sufficient for you, and you do not stop to look into the mystery. Lois, it isallmystery. Look at all the wretched ruined lives one sees; what becomes of those plans for good for them?"
"Failed, Mrs. Barclay; because of the people's unwillingness to come into the plans."
"They do not know them!"
"No, but they do know the steps which lead into them, and those steps they refuse to take."
"I do not understand you. What steps?"
"The Lord does not show us his plans. He shows us, one by one, the steps he bids us take. If we take them, one by one, they will bring us into all that God has purposed and meant for us—the very best that could come to us."
"And you think his plans and purposes could be overthrown?"
"Why, certainly. Else what mean Christ's lamentations over Jerusalem? 'O Jerusalem,… how often would I have gathered thy children together, even as a hen gathereth her brood under her wings, and ye would not.' I would—ye would not; and the choice lies with us."
"And suppose a person falls in with these plans, as you say, step by step?"
"O, then it is all good," said Lois; "the way and the end; all good.There is no mistake nor misadventure."
"Nor disaster?"
"Not what turns out to be such."
"Lois," said Mrs. Barclay, after a thoughtful pause, "you are a very happy person!"
"Yes," said Lois, smiling; "and I have just told you the reason. Don't you see? I have no care about anything."
"On your principles, I do not see what need you had to consider your future way of life; to speculate about it, I mean."
"No," said Lois, rising, "I have not. Only sometimes one must look a little carefully at the parting of the ways, to see which road one is meant to take."
"Sit down again. I did not come out here to talk of all this. I wanted to ask you something."
Lois sat down.
"I came to ask a favour."
"How could you, Mrs. Barclay? I mean, nothing we could do could be afavourto you!"
"Yes, it could. I have a friend that wants to come to see me."
"Well?"
"May he come?"
"Why, of course."
"But it is a gentleman."
"Well," said Lois again, smiling, "we have no objections to gentlemen."
"It is a friend whom I have not seen in a very long while; a dear friend; a dear friend of my husband's in years gone by. He has just returned from Europe; and he writes to ask if he may call on his way to Boston and spend Sunday with me."
"He shall be very welcome, Mrs. Barclay; and we will try to make him comfortable."
"O, comfortable! there is no question of that. But will it not be at all inconvenient?"
"Not in the least."
"Then he may come?"
"Certainly. When does he wish to come?"
"This week—Saturday. His name is Dillwyn."
"Dillwyn!" Lois repeated. "Dillwyn? I saw a Mr. Dillwyn at Mrs.Wishart's once or twice."
"It must be the same. I do not know of two. And he knows Mrs. Wishart.So you remember him? What do you remember about him?"
"Not much. I have an impression that he knows a great deal, and has very pleasant manners."
"Quite right. That is the man. So he may come? Thank you."
Lois took up one of her baskets of apples and carried it into the house, where she deposited it at Mrs. Armadale's feet.
"They are beautiful this year, aren't they, mother? Girls, we are going to have a visitor."
Charity was brushing up the floor; the broom paused. Madge was sewing; the needle remained drawn out. Both looked at Lois.
"A visitor!" came from both pairs of lips.
"Yes, indeed. A visitor. A gentleman. And he is coming to stay over Sunday. So, Charry, you must see and have things very special. And so must I."
"A gentleman! Who is he? Uncle Tim?"
"Not a bit of it. A young, at least a much younger, gentleman; a travelled gentleman; an elegant gentleman. A friend of Mrs. Barclay."
"What are we to do with him?"
"Nothing. Nothing whatever. We have nothing to do with him, and couldn't do it if we had."
"You needn't laugh. We have got to lodge him and feed him."
"That's easy. I'll put the white spread on the bed in the spare room; and you may get out your pickles."
"Pickles! Is he fond of pickles?"
"I don't know!" said Lois, laughing still. "I have an impression he is a man who likes all sorts of nice things."
"I hate men who like nice things! But, Lois!—there will be Saturday tea, and Sunday breakfast and dinner and supper, and Monday morning breakfast."
"Perhaps Monday dinner."
"O, he can't stay to dinner."
"Why not?"
"It is washing day."
"My dear Charry! to such men Monday is just like all other days; and washing is—well, of course, a necessity, but it is done by fairies, or it might be, for all they know about it."
"There's five meals anyhow," Charity went on.—"Wouldn't it be a good plan to get uncle Tim to be here?"
"What for?"
"Why, we haven't a man in the house."
"What then?"
"Who'll talk to him?"
"Mrs. Barclay will take care of that. You, Charity dear, see to your pickles."
"I don't know what you mean," said Charity fretfully. "What are we going to have for dinner, Sunday? I could fricassee a pair of chickens."
"No, Charity, you couldn't. Sunday is Sunday, just as much with Mr.Dillwyn here."
"Dillwyn!" said Madge. "I've heard you speak of him."
"Very likely. I saw him once or twice in my New York days."
"And he gave you lunch."
"Mrs. Wishart and me. Yes. And a good lunch it was. That's why I spoke of pickles, Charity. Do the very best you can."
"I cannot do my best, unless I can cook the chickens," said Charity, who all this while stood leaning upon her broom. "I might do it for once."
"Where is your leave to do wrong once?"
"But this is a particular occasion—you may call it a necessity; and necessity makes an exception."
"What is the necessity, Charity?" said Mrs. Armadale, who until now had not spoken.
"Why, grandma, you want to treat a stranger well?"
"With whatever I have got to give him. But Sunday time isn't mine to give."
"Butnecessarythings, grandma?—we may do necessary things?"
"What have you got in the house?"
"Nothing on earth, except a ham to boil. Cold ham,—that's all. Do you think that's enough?"
"It won't hurt him to dine on cold ham," the old lady said complacently.
"Why don't you cook your chickens and have them cold too?" Lois asked.
"Cold fricassee ain't worth a cent."
"Cook them some other way. Roast them,—or— Give them to me, and I'll do them for you! I'll do them, Charity. Then with your nice bread, and apple sauce, and potatoes, and some of my pears and apples, and a pumpkin pie, Charity, and coffee,—we shall do very well. Mr. Dillwyn has made a worse dinner in the course of his wanderings, I'll undertake to maintain."
"What shall I have for supper?" Charity asked doubtfully. "Supper comes first."
"Shortcake. And some of your cold ham. And stew up some quinces and apples together, Cherry. You don't want anything more,—or better."
"Do you think he will understand having a cold dinner, Sunday?" Charity asked. "Men make so much of hot dinners."
"What does it signify, my dear, whether he understands it or not?" saidMrs. Armadale. "What we have to do, is what the Lord tells us to do.That is all you need mind."
"I mind what folks think, though," said Charity. "Mrs. Barclay's friend especially."
"I do not think he will notice it," said simple Mrs. Armadale.
There was a little more bustle in the house than usual during the next two days; and the spare room was no doubt put in very particular order, with the best of all the house could furnish on the bed and toilet-table. Pantry and larder also were well stocked; and Lois was just watching the preparation of her chickens, Saturday evening, and therefore in the kitchen, when Mr. Dillwyn came to the door. Mrs. Barclay herself let him in, and brought him into her own warm, comfortable, luxurious-looking sitting-room. The evening was falling dusk, so that the little wood lire in Mrs. Barclay's chimney had opportunity to display itself, and I might say, the room too; which never could have showed to better advantage. The flickering light danced back again from gilded books, from the polished case of the piano, from picture frames, and pictures, and piles of music, and comfortable easy-chairs standing invitingly, and trinkets of art or curiosity; an unrolled engraving in one place, a stereoscope in another, a work-basket, and the bright brass stand of a microscope.
The greeting was warm between the two friends; and then Mrs. Barclay sat down and surveyed her visitor, whom she had not seen for so long. He was not a beauty of Tom Caruthers' sort, but he was what I think better; manly and intelligent, and with an air and bearing of frank nobleness which became him exceedingly. That he was a man with a serious purpose in life, or any object of earnest pursuit, you would not have supposed; and that character had never belonged to him. Mrs. Barclay, looking at him, could not see any sign that it was his now. Look and manner were easy and careless as of old.
"You are not changed," she remarked.
"What should change me?" said he, while his eye ran rapidly over the apartment. "And you?—you do not look as if life was stagnating here."
"It does not stagnate. I never was further from stagnation in all my life."
"And yet Shampuashuh is in a corner!"
"Is not most of the work of the world done in corners? It is not the butterfly, but the coral insect, that lays foundations and lifts up islands out of the sea."
"You are not a coral insect any more than I am a butterfly," saidDillwyn, laughing.
"Rather more."
"I acknowledge it, thankfully. And I am rejoiced to know from your letters that the seclusion has been without any evil consequences to yourself. It has been pleasant?"
"Royally pleasant. I have delighted in my building; even although I could not tell whether my island would not prove a dangerous one to mariners."
"I have just been having a discourse on that subject with my sister. I think one's sisters are—I beg your pardon!—the mischief. Tom's sister has done for him; and mine is very eager to take care of me."
"Did you consult her?" asked Mrs. Barclay, with surprise.
"Nothing of the kind! I merely told her I was coming up here to see you. A few questions followed, as to what you were doing here,—which I did not tell her, by the way,—and she hit the bull's eye with the instinctive accuracy of a woman; poured out upon me in consequence a lecture upon imprudence. Of course I confessed to nothing, but that mattered not. All that Tom's sister urged upon him, my good sister pressed upon me."
"So did I once, did I not?"
"You are not going to repeat it?"
"No; that is over, for me. I know better. But, Philip, I do not see the way very clear before you."
He left the matter there, and went off into a talk with her upon widely-different subjects, touching or growing out of his travels and experiences during the last year and a half. The twilight darkened, and the fire brightened, and in the light of the fire the two sat and talked; till a door opened, and in the same flickering shine a figure presented itself which Mr. Dillwyn remembered. Though now it was clothed in nothing finer than a dark calico, and round her shoulders a little white worsted shawl was twisted. Mrs. Barclay began a sentence of introduction, but Mr. Dillwyn cut her short.
"Do not do me such dishonour," he said. "Must I suppose that MissLothrop has forgotten me?"
"Not at all, Mr. Dillwyn," said Lois frankly; "I remember you very well. Tea will be ready in a minute—would you like to see your room first?"
"You are too kind, to receive me!"
"It is a pleasure. You are Mrs. Barclay's friend, and she is at home here; I will get a light."
Which she did, and Mr. Dillwyn, seeing he could not find his own way, was obliged to accept her services and see her trip up the stairs before him. At the door she handed him the light and ran down again. There was a fire here too—a wood fire; blazing hospitably, and throwing its cheery light upon a wide, pleasant, country room, not like what Mr. Dillwyn was accustomed to, but it seemed the more hospitable. Nothing handsome there; no articles of luxury (beside the fire); the reflection of the blaze came back from dark old-fashioned chairs and chests of drawers, dark chintz hangings to windows and bed, white counterpane and napery, with a sonsy, sober, quiet air of comfort; and the air was fresh and sweet as air should be, and as air can only be at a distance from the smoke of many chimneys and the congregated habitations of many human beings. I do not think Mr. Dillwyn spent much attention upon these details; yet he felt himself in a sound, clear, healthy atmosphere, socially as well as physically; also had a perception that it was very far removed from that in which he had lived and breathed hitherto. How simply that girl had lighted him up the stairs, and given him his brass candlestick at the door of his room! Whatà plombcould have been more perfect! I do not mean to imply that Mr. Dillwyn knew the candlestick was brass; I am afraid there was a glamour over his eyes which made it seem golden.
He found Mrs. Barclay seated in a very thoughtful attitude before her fire, when he came down again; but just then the door of the other room was opened, and they were called in to tea.
The family were in rather gala trim. Lois, as I said, wore indeed only a dark print dress, with her white fichu over it; but Charity had put on her best silk, and Madge had stuck two golden chrysanthemums in her dark hair (with excellent effect), and Mrs. Armadale was stately in her best cap. Alas! Philip Dillwyn did not know what any of them had on. He was placed next to Mrs. Armadale, and all supper time his special attention, so far as appeared, was given to the old lady. He talked to her, and he served her, with an easy, pleasant grace, and without at all putting himself forward or taking the part of the distinguished stranger. It was simply good will and good breeding; however, it produced a great effect.
"The air up here is delicious!" he remarked, after he had attended to all the old lady's immediate wants, and applied himself to his own supper. "It gives one a tremendous appetite."
"I allays like to see folks eat," said Mrs. Armadale. "After one's done the gettin' things ready, I hate to have it all for nothin'."
"It shall not be for nothing this time, as far as I am concerned."
"Ain't the air good in New York?" Mrs. Armadale next asked.
"I do not think it ever was so sweet as this. But when you crowd a million or so of people into room that is only enough for a thousand, you can guess what the consequences must be."
"What do they crowd up so for, then?"
"It must be the case in a great city."
"I don't see the sense o' that," said Mrs. Armadale. "Ain't the world big enough?"
"Far too big," said Mr. Dillwyn. "You see, when people's time is very valuable, they cannot afford to spend too much of it in running about after each other."
"What makes their time worth any more'n our'n?"
"They are making money so fast with it."
"And isthatwhat makes folks' time valeyable?"
"In their opinion, madam."
"I never could see no use in havin' much money," said the old lady.
"But there comes a question," said Dillwyn. "What is 'much'?"
"More'n enough, I should say."
"Enough for what? That also must be settled."
"I'm an old-fashioned woman," said the old lady, "and I go by the old-fashionedst book in the world. That says, 'we brought nothing into this world, and we can carry nothing out; therefore, having food and raiment, let us be therewith content.'"
"But, again, what sort of food, and what sort of raiment?" urged the gentleman pleasantly. "For instance; would you be content to exchange this delicious manufacture,—which seems to me rather like ambrosia than common food,—for some of the black bread of Norway? with no qualification of golden butter? or for Scotch oatmeal bannocks? or for sour corn cake?"
"I would be quite content, if it was the Lord's will," said the old lady. "There's no obligation upon anybody to have itsour."
Mr. Dillwyn laughed gently. "I can fancy," he said, "that you never would allow such a dereliction in duty. But, beside having the bread sweet, is it not allowed us to have the best we can get?"
"The best we canmake," answered Mrs. Armadale; "I believe in everybody doin' the best he kin with what he has got to work with; but food ain't worth so much that we should pay a large price for it."
The gentleman's eye glanced with a scarcely perceptible movement over the table at which he was sitting. Bread, indeed, in piles of white flakiness; and butter; but besides, there was the cold ham in delicate slices, and excellent-looking cheese, and apples in a sort of beautiful golden confection, and cake of superb colour and texture; a pitcher of milk that was rosy sweet, and coffee rich with cream. The glance that took all this in was slight and swift, and yet the old lady was quick enough to see and understand it.
"Yes," she said, "it's all our'n, all there is on the table. Our cow eats our own grass, and Madge, my daughter, makes the butter and the cheese. We've raised and cured our own pork; and the wheat that makes the bread is grown on our ground too; we farm it out on shares; and it is ground at a mill about four miles off. Our hens lay our eggs; it's all from home."
"But suppose the case of people who have no ground, nor hens, nor pork, nor cow? they must buy."
"Of course," said the old lady; "everybody ain't farmers."
"I am ready to wish I was one," said Dillwyn. "But even then, I confess, I should want coffee and tea and sugar—as I see you. do."
"Well, those things don't grow in America," said Mrs. Armadale.
"And spice don't, neither, mother," observed Charity.
"So it appears that even you send abroad for luxuries," Mr. Dillwyn went on. "And why not? And the question is, where shall we stop? If I want coffee, I must have money to buy it, and the better the coffee the more money; and the same with tea. In cities we must buy all we use or consume, unless one is a butcher or a baker. May I not try to get more money, in order that I may have better things? We have got round to our starting-point."
"'They that will be rich fall into temptation and a snare,'" Mrs.Armadale said quietly.
"Then where is the line?—Miss Lois, you are smiling. Is it at my stupidity?"
"No," said Lois. "I was thinking of a lunch—such as I have seen it—in one of the great New York hotels."
"Well?" said he, without betraying on his own part any recollection; "how does that come in? By way of illustrating Mrs. Armadale, or me?"
"I seem to remember a number of things that illustrate both," said Lois; "but as I profited by them at the time, it would be ungrateful in me to instance them now."
"You profited by them with pleasure, or otherwise?"
"Not otherwise. I was very hungry."
"You evade my question, however."
"I will not. I profited by them with much pleasure."
"Then you are on my side, as far as I can be said to have a side?"
"I think not. The pleasure is undoubted; but I do not know that that touches the question of expediency."
"I think it does. I think it settles the question. Mrs. Armadale, your granddaughter confesses the pleasure; and what else do we live for, but to get the most good out of life?"
"What pleasure does she confess?" asked the old lady, with more eagerness than her words hitherto had manifested.
"Pleasure in nice things, grandmother; in particularly nice things; that had cost a great deal to fetch them from nobody knows where; and pleasure in pretty things too. That hotel seemed almost like the halls of Aladdin to my inexperienced eyes. There is certainly pleasure in a wonderfully dainty meal, served in wonderful vessels of glass and china and silver, and marble and gold and flowers to help the effect. I could have dreamed myself into a fairy tale, often, if it had not been for the people."
"Life is not a fairy tale," said Mrs. Armadale somewhat severely.
"No, grandmother; and so the humanity present generally reminded me.But the illusion for a minute was delightful."
"Is there any harm in making it as much like a fairy tale as we can?"
Some of the little courtesies and hospitalities of the table came in here, and Mr. Dillwyn's question received no answer. His eye went round the table. No, clearly these people did not live in fairyland, and as little in the search after it. Good, strong, sensible, practical faces; women that evidently had their work to do, and did it; habitual energy and purpose spoke in every one of them, and purposeattained. Here was no aimless dreaming or fruitless wishing. The old lady's face was sorely weather-beaten, but calm as a ship in harbour. Charity was homely, but comfortable. Madge and Lois were blooming in strength and activity, and as innocent apparently of any vague, unfulfilled longings as a new-blown rose. Only when Mr. Dillwyn's eye met Mrs. Barclay's he was sensible of a different record. He half sighed. The calm and the rest were not there.
The talk rambled on. Mr. Dillwyn made him self exceedingly pleasant; told of things he had seen in his travels, things and people, and ways of life; interesting even Mrs. Armadale with a sort of fascinated interest, and gaining, he knew, no little share of her good-will. So, just as the meal was ending, he ventured to bring forward the old subject again.
"You will pardon me, Mrs. Armadale," he began,—"but you are the first person I ever met who did not value money."
"Perhaps I am the first person you ever met who had something better."
"You mean—?" said Philip, with a look of inquiry. "I do not understand."
"I have treasure in heaven."
"But the coin of that realm is not current here?—and we arehere."
"That coin makes me rich now; and I take it with me when I go," said the old lady, as she rose from the table.
Mrs. Barclay returned to her own room, and Mr. Dillwyn was forced to follow her. The door was shut between them and the rest of the household. Mrs. Barclay trimmed her fire, and her guest looked on absently. Then they sat down on opposite sides of the fireplace; Mrs. Barclay smiling inwardly, for she knew that Philip was impatient; however, nothing could be more sedate to all appearance than she was.
"Do you hear how the wind moans in the chimney?" she said. "That means rain."
"Rather dismal, isn't it?"
"No. In this house nothing is dismal. There is a wholesome way of looking at everything."
"Not at money?"
"It is no use, Philip, to talk to people about what they cannot understand."
"I thought understanding on that point was universal."
"They have another standard in this family for weighing things, from that which you and I have been accustomed to go by."
"What is it?"
"I can hardly tell you, in a word. I am not sure that I can tell you at all. Ask Lois."
"When can I ask her? Do you spend your evenings alone?"
"By no means! Sometimes I go out and read 'Rob Roy' to them. Sometimes the girls come to me for some deeper reading, or lessons."
"Will they come to-night?"
"Of course not! They would not interfere with your enjoyment of my society."
"Cannot you ask Lois in, on some pretext?"
"Not without her sister. It is hard on you, Philip! I will do the best for you I can; but you must watch your opportunity."
Mr. Dillwyn gave it up with a good grace, and devoted himself to Mrs. Barclay for the rest of the evening. On the other side of the wall separating the two rooms, meanwhile a different colloquy had taken place.
"So that is one of your fine people?" said Miss Charity. "Well, I don't think much of him."
"I have no doubt he would return the compliment," said Madge.
"No," said Lois; "I think he is too polite."
"He was polite to grandmother," returned Charity. "Not to anybody else, that I saw. But, girls, didn't he like the bread!"
"I thought he liked everything pretty well," said Madge.
"When's he goin'?" Mrs. Armadale asked suddenly.
"Monday, some time," Madge answered. "Mrs. Barclay said 'until Monday.'What time Monday I don't know."
"Well, we've got things enough to hold out till then," said Charity, gathering up her dishes. "It's fun, too; I like to set a nice table."
"Why, grandmother?" said Lois. "Don't you like Mrs. Barclay's friend?"
"Well enough, child. I don't want him for none of our'n."
"Why, grandmother?" said Madge.
"His world ain't our world, children, and his hopes ain't our hopes—if the poor soul has any. 'Seems to me he's all in the dark."
"That's only on one subject," said Lois. "About everything else he knows a great deal; and he has seen everything."
"Yes," said Mrs. Armadale; "very like he has; and he likes to talk about it; and he has a pleasant tongue; and he is a civil man. But there's one thing he hain't seen, and that is the light; and one thing he don't know, and that is happiness. And he may have plenty of money—I dare say he has; but he's what I call a poor man. I don't want you to have no such friends."
"But grandmother, you do not dislike to have him in the house these two days, do you?"
"It can't be helped, my dear, and we'll do the best for him we can. ButI don't wantyouto have no such friends."
"I believe we should go out of the world to suit grandmother," remarkedCharity. "She won't think us safe as long as we're in it."
The whole family went to church the next morning. Mr. Dillwyn's particular object, however, was not much furthered. He saw Lois, indeed, at the breakfast table; and the sight was everything his fancy had painted it. He thought of Milton's
"Pensive nun, devout and pure,Sober, stedfast, and demure"—
only the description did not quite fit; for there was a healthy, sweet freshness about Lois which gave the idea of more life and activity, mental and bodily, than could consort with a pensive character. The rest fitted pretty well; and the lines ran again and again through Mr. Dillwyn's head. Lois was gone to church long before the rest of the family set out; and in church she did not sit with the others; and she did not come home with them. However, she was at dinner. But immediately after dinner Mrs. Barclay with drew again into her own room, and Mr. Dillwyn had no choice but to accompany her.
"What now?" he asked. "What do you do the rest of the day?"
"I stay at home and read. Lois goes to Sunday school."
Mr. Dillwyn looked to the windows. The rain Mrs. Barclay threatened had come; and had already begun in a sort of fury, in company with a wind, which drove it and beat it, as it seemed, from all points of the compass at once. The lines of rain-drops went slantwise past the windows, and then beat violently upon them; the ground was wet in a few minutes; the sky was dark with its thick watery veils. Wind and rain were holding revelry.
"She will not go out in this weather," said the gentleman, with conviction which seemed to be agreeable.
"The weather will not hinder her," returned Mrs. Barclay.
"Thisweather?"
"No. Lois does not mind weather. I have learned to know her by this time. Where she thinks she ought to go, or what she thinks she ought to do, there no hindrance will stop her. It is good you should learn to know her too, Philip."
"Pray tell me,—is the question of 'ought' never affected by what should be legitimate hindrances?"
"They are never credited with being legitimate," Mrs. Barclay said, with a slight laugh. "The principle is the same as that old soldier's who said, you know, when ordered upon some difficult duty, 'Sir, if it is possible, it shall be done; and if it is impossible, itmustbe done!'"
"That will do for a soldier,", said Dillwyn. "At what o'clock does she go?"
"In about a quarter of an hour I shall expect to hear her feet pattering softly through the hall, and then the door will open and shut without noise, and a dark figure will shoot past the windows."
Mr. Dillwyn left the room, and probably made some preparations; for when, a few minutes later, a figure all wrapped up in a waterproof cloak did pass softly through the hall, he came out of Mrs. Barclay's room and confronted it; and I think his overcoat was on.
"Miss Lois! you cannot be going out in this storm?"
"O yes. The storm is nothing—only something to fight against."
"But it blows quite furiously."
"I don't dislike a wind," said Lois, laying her hand on the lock of the door.
"You have no umbrella?"
"Don't need it. I am all protected, don't you see? Mr. Dillwyn,youare not going out?"
"Why not?"
"But you have nothing to call you out?"
"I beg your pardon. The same thing, I venture to presume, that calls you out,—duty. Only in my case the duty is pleasure."
"You are not going to take care of me?"
"Certainly."
"But there's no need. Not the least in the world."
"From your point of view."
He was so alertly ready, had the door open and his umbrella spread, and stood outside waiting for her, Lois did not know how to get rid of him. She would surely have done it if she could. So she found herself going up the street with him by her side, and the umbrella warding off the wind and rain from her face. It was vexatious and amusing. From her face! who had faced Sharnpuashuh storms ever since she could remember. It is very odd to be taken care of on a sudden, when you are accustomed, and perfectly able, to take care of your self. It is also agreeable.
"You had better take my arm, Miss Lois," said her companion. "I could shield you better."
"Well," said Lois, half laughing, "since you are here, I may as well take the good of it."
And then Mr. Dillwyn had got things as he wanted them.
"I ventured to assume, a little while ago, Miss Lois, that duty was taking you out into this storm; but I confess my curiosity to know what duty could have the right to do it. If my curiosity is indiscreet, you can rebuke it."
"It is not indiscreet," said Lois. "I have a sort of a Bible class, in the upper part of the village, a quarter of a mile beyond the church."
"I understood it was something of that kind, or I should not have asked. But in such weather as this, surely they would not expect you?"
"Yes, they would. At any rate, I am bound to show that I expect them."
"Doyou expect them, to come out to-day?"
"Not all of them," Lois allowed. "But if there would not be one, stillI must be there."
"Why?—if you will pardon me for asking."
"It is good they should know that I am regular and to be depended on. And, besides, they will be sure to measure the depth of my interest in the work by my desire to do it. And one can do so little in this world at one's best, that one is bound to do all one can."
"All one can," Mr. Dillwyn repeated.
"You cannot put it at a lower figure. I was struck with a word in one of Mrs. Barclay's books—'the Life and Correspondence of John Foster,'—'Power, to its very last particle, is duty.'"
"But that would be to make life a terrible responsibility."
"Say noble—not terrible!" said Lois.
"I confess it seems to me terrible also. I do not see how you can get rid of the element of terribleness."
"Yes,—if duty is neglected. Not if duty is done."
"Who does his duty, at that rate?"
"Some peopletry," said Lois.
"And that trying must make life a servitude."
"Service—not servitude!" exclaimed Lois again, with the same wholesome, hearty ring in her voice that her companion had noticed before.
"How do you draw the line between them?" he asked, with an inward smile; and yet Mr. Dillwyn was earnest enough too.
"There is more than a line between them," said Lois. "There is all the distance between freedom and slavery." And the words recurred to her, "I will walk at liberty,for I seek thy precepts;" but she judged they would not be familiar to her companion nor meet appreciation from him, so she did not speak them. "Service," she went on, "I think is one of the noblest words in the world; but it cannot be rendered servilely. It must be free, from the heart."
"You make nice distinctions. Service, I suppose you mean, of one's fellow creatures?"
"No," said Lois, "I do not mean that. Service must be given to God. It will work out upon one's fellow-creatures, of course."
"Nice distinctions again," said Mr. Dillwyn.
"But very real! And very essential."
"Is there not service—true service—that is given wholly to one's needy fellows of humanity? It seems to me I have heard of such."
"There is a good deal of such service," said Lois, "but it is not the true. It is partial, and arbitrary; it ebbs and flows, and chooses; and is found consorting with what is not service, but the contrary. True service, given to God, and rising from the love of him, goes where it is sent and does what it is bidden, and has too high a spring ever to fail. Real service gives all, and is ready for everything."
"How much do you mean, I wonder, by 'giving all'? Do you use the words soberly?"
"Quite soberly," said Lois, laughing.
"Giving all what?"
"All one's power,—according to Foster's judgment of it."
"Do you know what that would end in?"
"I think I do. How do you mean?"
"Do you know how much a man or a woman would give who gaveallhe had?"