"Yes, of course I do."
"What would be left for himself?"
Lois did not answer at once; but then she stopped short in her walk and stood still, in the midst of rain and wind, confronting her companion. And her words were with an energy that she did not at all mean to give them.
"There would be left for him—all that the riches and love of God could do for his child."
Mr. Dillwyn gazed into the face that was turned towards him, flushed, fired, earnest, full of a grand consciousness, as of a most simple unconsciousness,—and for the moment did not think of replying. Then Lois recollected herself, smiled at herself, and went on.
"I am very foolish to talk so much," she said. "I do not know why I do. Somehow I think it is your fault, Mr. Dillwyn. I am not in the habit, I think, of holding forth so to people who ought to know better than myself."
"I am sure you are aware that I was speaking honestly, and that I donotknow better?" he said.
"I suppose I thought so," Lois answered. "But that does not quite excuse me. Only—I was sorry for you, Mr. Dillwyn."
"Thank you. Now, may I go on? The conversation can hardly be so interesting to you as it is to me."
"I think I have said enough," said Lois, a little shyly.
"No, not enough, for I want to know more. The sentence you quoted from Foster, if it is true, is overwhelming. If it is true, it leaves all the world with terrible arrears of obligation."
"Yes," Lois answered half reluctantly,—"duty unfulfilledisterrible. But, not 'all the world,' Mr. Dillwyn."
"You are an exception."
"I did not mean myself. I do not suppose I do all I ought to do. I do try to do all I know. But there are a great many beside me, who do better."
"You agree then, that one is not bound by dutiesunknown?"
Lois hesitated. "You are making me talk again, as if I were wise," she said. "What should hinder any one from knowing his duty, Mr. Dillwyn."
"Suppose a case of pure ignorance."
"Then let ignorance study."
"Study what?"
"Mr. Dillwyn, you ought to ask somebody who can answer you better."
"I do not know any such somebody."
"Haven't you a Christian among all your friends?"
"I have not a friend in the world, of whom I could ask such a question with the least hope of having it answered."
"Where is your minister?"
"My minister? Clergyman, you mean? Miss Lois, I have been a wanderer over the earth for years. I have not any 'minister.'"
Lois was silent again. They had been walking fast, as well as talking fast, spite of wind and rain; the church was left behind some time ago, and the more comely and elegant part of the village settlement.
"We shall have to stop talking now," Lois said, "for we are near my place."
"Which is your place?"
"Do you see that old schoolhouse, a little further on? We have that for our meetings. Some of the boys put it in order and make the fire for me."
"You will let me come in?"
"You?" said Lois. "O no! Nobody is there but my class."
"You will let me be one of them to-day? Seriously,—I am going to wait to see you home; you will not let me wait in the rain?"
"I shall bid you go home," said Lois, laughing.
"I am not going to do that."
"Seriously, Mr. Dillwyn, I do not need the least care."
"Perhaps. But I must look at the matter from my point of view."
What a troublesome man! thought Lois; but then they were at the schoolhouse door, the wind and rain came with such a wild burst, that it seemed the one thing to do to get under shelter; and so Mr. Dillwyn went in with her, and how to turn him out Lois did not know.
It was a bare little place. The sanded floor gave little help or seeming of comfort; the wooden chairs and benches were old and hard; however, the small stove did give out warmth enough to make the place habitable, even to its furthest corners. Six people were already there. Lois gave a rapid glance at the situation. There was no time, and it was no company for a prolonged battle with the intruder.
"Mr. Dillwyn," she said softly, "will you take a seat by the stove, as far from us as you can; and make believe you have neither eyes nor ears? You must not be seen to have either—by any use you make of them. If you keep quite still, maybe they will forget you are here. You can keep up the fire for us."
She turned from him to greet her young friends, and Mr. Dillwyn obeyed orders. He hung up his wet hat and coat and sat down in the furthest corner; placing himself so, however, that neither eyes nor ears should be hindered in the exercise of their vocation, while his attitude might have suggested a fit of sleepiness, or a most indifferent meditation on things far distant, or possibly rest after severe exertion. Lois and her six scholars took their places at the other end of the room, which was too small to prevent every word they spoke from being distinctly heard by the one idle spectator. A spectator in truth Mr. Dillwyn desired to be, not merely an auditor; so, as he had been warned he must not be seen to look, he arranged himself in a manner to serve both purposes, of seeing and not seeing.
The hour was not long to this one spectator, although it extended itself to full an hour and a half. He gave as close attention as ever when a student in college he had given to lecture or lesson. And yet, though he did this, Mr. Dillwyn was not, at least not at the time, thinking much of the matter of the lesson. He was studying the lecturer. And the study grew intense. It was not flattering to perceive, as he soon did, that Lois had entirely forgotten his presence. He saw it by the free unconcern with which she did her work, as well as in the absorbed interest she gave to it. Not flattering, and it cast a little shadow upon him, but it was convenient for his present purpose of observation. So he watched,—and listened. He heard the sweet utterance and clear enunciation, first of all; he heard them, it is true, whenever she spoke; but now the utterance sounded sweeter than usual, as if there were a vibration from some fuller than usual mental harmony, and the voice was of a silvery melody. It contrasted with the other voices, which were more or less rough or grating or nasal, too high pitched or low, and rough-cadenced, as uncultured voices are apt to be. From the voices, Mr. Dillwyn's attention was drawn to what the voices said. And here he found, most unexpectedly, a great deal to interest him. Those rough voices spoke words of genuine intelligence; they expressed earnest interest; and they showed the speakers to be acute, thoughtful, not uninformed, quick to catch what was presented to them, often cunning to deal with it. Mr. Dillwyn was in danger of smiling, more than once. And Lois met them, if not with the skill of a practised logician, with the quick wit of a woman's intuition and a woman's loving sympathy, armed with knowledge, and penetration, and tact, and gentleness, and wisdom. It was something delightful to hear her soft accents answer them, with such hidden strength under their softness; it was charming to see her gentleness and patience, and eagerness too; for Lois was talking with all her heart. Mr. Dillwyn lost his wonder that her class came out in the rain; he only wished he could be one of them, and have the privilege too!
It was impossible but that with all this mental observation Mr. Dillwyn's eyes should also take notice of the fair exterior before them. They would not have been worthy to see it else. Lois had laid off her bonnet in the hot little room; it had left her hair a little loosened and disordered; yet not with what deserved to be called disorder; it was merely a softening and lifting of the rich, full masses, adding to the grace of the contour, not taking from it. Nothing could be plainer than the girl's dress; all the more the observer's eye noted the excellent lines of the figure and the natural charm of every movement and attitude. The charm that comes, and always must come, from inward refinement and delicacy, when combined with absence of consciousness; and which can only be helped, not produced, by any perfection of the physical structure. Then the tints of absolute health, and those low, musical, sensitive tones, flowing on in such sweet modulations—
What a woman was this! Mr. Dillwyn could see, too, the effect of Mrs. Barclay's work. He was sure he could. The whole giving of that Bible lesson betrayed the refinement of mental training and culture; even the management of the voice told of it. Here was not a fine machine, sound and good, yet in need of regulating, and working, and lubricating to get it in order; all that had been done, and the smooth running told how well. By degrees Mr. Dillwyn forgot the lesson, and the class, and the schoolhouse, and remembered but one thing any more; and that was Lois. His head and heart grew full of her. He had been in the grasp of a strong fancy before; a fancy strong enough to make him spend money, and spend time, for the possible attainment of its object; now it was fancy no longer. He had made up his mind, as a man makes it up once for all; not to try to win Lois, but to have her. She, he saw, was as yet ungrazed by any corresponding feeling towards him. That made no difference. Philip Dillwyn had one object in life from this time. He hardly saw or heard Lois's leave-takings with her class, but as she came up to him he rose.
"I have kept you too long, Mr. Dillwyn; but I could not help it; and really, you know, it was your own fault."
"Not a minute too long," he assured her; and he put on her cloak and handed her her bonnet with grave courtesy, and a manner which Lois would have said was absorbed, but for a certain element in it which even then struck her. They set out upon their homeward way, but the walk home was not as the walk out had been. The rain and the wind were unchanged; the wind, indeed, had an added touch of waywardness as they more nearly faced it, going this way; and the rain was driven against them with greater fury. Lois was fain to cling to her companion's arm, and the umbrella had to be handled with discretion. But the storm had been violent enough before, and it was no feature of that which made the difference. Neither was it the fact that both parties were now almost silent, whereas on the way out they had talked incessantly; though it was a fact. Perhaps Lois was tired with talking, seeing she had been doing nothing else for two hours, but what ailed Philip? And what gave the walk its new character? Lois did not know, though she felt it in every fibre of her being. And Mr. Dillwyn did not know, though the cause lay in him. He was taking care of Lois; he had been taking care of her before; but now, unconsciously, he was doing it as a man only does it for one woman in the world. Hardly more careful of her, yet with that indefinable something in the manner of it, which Lois felt even in the putting on of her cloak in the schoolhouse. It was something she had never touched before in her life, and did not now know what it meant; at least I should say herreasondid not know; yet nature answered to nature infallibly, and by some hidden intuition of recognition the girl was subdued and dumb. This was nothing like Tom Caruthers, and anything she had received from him. Tom had been flattering, demonstrative, obsequious; there was no flattery here, and no demonstration, and nothing could be farther from obsequiousness. It was the delicate reverence which a man gives to only one woman of all the world; something that must be felt and cannot be feigned; the most subtle incense of worship one human spirit can render to another; which the one renders and the other receives, without either being able to tell how it is done. The more is the incense sweet, penetrating, powerful. Lois went home silently, through the rain and wind, and did not know why a certain mist of happiness seemed to encompass her. She was ignorant why the storm was so very beneficent in its action; did not know why the wind was so musical and the rain so refreshing; could not guess why she was sorry to get home. Yet the fact was before her as she stepped in.
"It has done you no harm!" said Mr. Dillwyn, smiling, as he met Lois's eyes, and saw her fresh, flushed cheeks. "Are you wet?"
"I think not at all."
"This must come off, however," he went on, proceeding to unfasten her cloak; "it has caught more rain-drops than you know." And Lois submitted, and meekly stood still and allowed the cloak, very wet on one side, to be taken off her.
"Where is this to go? there seems to be no place to hang it here."
"O, I will hang it up to dry in the kitchen, thank you," said Lois, offering to take it.
"Iwill hang it up to dry in the kitchen,—if you will show me the way. You cannot handle it."
Lois could have laughed, for did she not handle everything? and did wet or dry make any difference to her? However, she did not on this occasion feel like contesting the matter; but with unwonted docility preceded Mr. Dillwyn through the sitting-room, where were Mrs. Armadale and Madge, to the kitchen beyond, where Charity was just putting on the tea-kettle.
Mr. Dillwyn rejoined Mrs. Barclay in her parlour, but he was a less entertaining man this evening than he had been during the former part of his visit. Mrs. Barclay saw it, and smiled, and sighed. Even at the tea-table things were not like last evening. Philip entered into no discussions, made no special attempts to amuse anybody, attended to his duties in the unconscious way of one with whom they have become second nature, and talked only so much as politeness required. Mrs. Barclay looked at Lois, but could tell nothing from the grave face there. Always on Sunday evenings it had a very fair, sweet gravity.
The rest of the time, after tea, was spent in making music. It had become a usual Sunday evening entertainment. Mrs. Barclay played, and she and the two girls sang. It was all sacred music, of course, varied exceedingly, however, by the various tastes of the family. Old hymn and psaulm tunes were what Mrs. Armadale liked; and those generally came first; then the girls had more modern pieces, and with those Mrs. Barclay interwove an anthem or a chant now and then. Madge and Lois both had good voices and good natural taste and feeling; and Mrs. Barclay's instructions had been eagerly received. This evening Philip joined the choir; and Charity declared it was "better'n they could do in the Episcopal church."
"Do they have the best singing in the Episcopal church?" asked Philip absently.
"Well, they set up to; and you see they give more time to it. Our folks won't practise."
"I don't care how folk's voices sound, if their heartsarein it," said Mrs. Armadale.
"But you may notice, voices sound better if hearts are in it," said Dillwyn. "That made a large part of the beauty of our concert this evening."
"Was your'n in it?" asked Mrs. Armadale abruptly.
"My heart? In the words? I am afraid I must own it was not, in the way you mean, madam. If I must answer truth."
"Don't you always speak truth?"
"I believe I may say, thatismy habit," Philip answered, smiling.
"Then, do you think you ought to sing sech words, if you don't mean 'em?"
The question looks abrupt, on paper. It did not sound equally so. Something of earnest wistfulness there was in the old lady's look and manner, a touch of solemnity in her voice, which made the gentleman forgive her on the spot. He sat down beside her.
"Would you bid me not join in singing such words, then?"
"It's not my place to bid or forbid. But you can judge for yourself. Do you set much valley on professions that mean nothing?"
"I made no professions."
"Ain't it professin', when you say what the hymns say?"
"If you will forgive me—I did not say it," responded Philip.
"Ain't singin' sayin'?"
"They are generally looked upon as essentially different. People are never held responsible for the things they sing,—out of church," added Philip, smiling. "Is it otherwise with church singing?"
"What's church singin' good for, then?"
"I thought it was to put the minds of the worshippers in a right state;—to sober and harmonize them."
"I thought it was to tell the Lord how we felt," said the old lady.
"That is a new view of it, certainly."
"Ithought the words was to tell one how we had ought to feel!" said Charity. "There wouldn't more'n one in a dozen sing, mother, if you hadyourway; and then we should have nice music!"
"I think it would be nice music," said the old lady, with a kind of sober tremble in her voice, which somehow touched Philip. The ring of truth was there, at any rate.
"Could the world be managed," he said, with very gentle deference; "could the world be managed on such principles of truth and purity? Must we not take people as we find them?"
"Those are the Lord's principles," said Mrs. Armadale.
"Yes, but you know how the world is. Must we not, a little, as I said, take people as we find them?"
"The Lord won't do that," said the old lady. "He will either make them better, or he will cast them away."
"But we? We must deal with things as they are."
"How are you goin' to deal with 'em?"
"In charity and kindness; having patience with what is wrong, and believing that the good God will have more patience yet."
"You had better believe what he tells you," the old lady answered, somewhat sternly.
"But grandmother," Lois put in here, "hedoeshave patience."
"With whom, child?"
Lois did not answer; she only quoted softly the words—
"'Plenteous in mercy, long-suffering, abundant in goodness and truth.'"
"Ay, child; but you know what happens to the houses built on the sand."
The party broke up here, Mrs. Barclay bidding good-night and leaving the dining-room, whither they had all gone to eat apples. As Philip parted from Lois he remarked,—
"I did not understand the allusion in Mrs. Armadale's last words."
Lois's look fascinated him. It was just a moment's look, pausing before turning away; swift with eagerness and intent with some hidden feeling which he hardly comprehended. She only said,—
"Look in the end of the seventh chapter of Matthew."
"Well," said Mrs. Barclay, when the door was closed, "what do you think of our progress?"
"Progress?" repeated Philip vacantly. "I beg your pardon!"—
"In music, man!" said Mrs. Barclay, laughing.
"O!—Admirable. Have you a Bible here?"
"A Bible?" Mrs. Barclay echoed. "Yes—there is a Bible in every room, I believe. Yonder, on that table. Why? what do you want of one now?"
"I have had a sermon preached to me, and I want to find the text."
Mrs. Barclay asked no further, but she watched him, as with the book in his hand he sat down before the fire and studied the open page. Studied with grave thoughtfulness, drawing his brows a little, and pondering with eyes fixed on the words for some length of time. Then he bade her good-night with a smile, and went away.
He went away in good earnest next day; but as a subject of conversation in the village his visit lasted a good while. That same evening Mrs. Marx came to make a call, just before supper.
"How much pork are you goin' to want this year, mother?" she began, with the business of one who had been stirring her energies with a walk in a cool wind.
"I suppose, about as usual," said Mrs. Armadale.
"I forget how much that is; I can't keep it in my head from one year to another. Besides, I didn't know but you'd want an extra quantity, if your family was goin' to be larger."
"It is not going to be larger, as I know."
"If my pork ain't, I shall come short home. It beats me! I've fed 'em just the same as usual,—and the corn's every bit as good as usual, never better; good big fat yellow ears, that had ought to make a porker's heart dance for joy; and I should think they were sufferin' from continual lowness o' spirits, to judge by the way theydon'tget fat. They're growing real long-legged and slab-sided—just the way I hate to see pigs look. I don' know what's the matter with 'em."
"Where do you keep 'em?"
"Under the barn—just where they always be. Well, you've had a visitor?"
"Mrs. Barclay has."
"I understood 'twas her company; but you saw him?"
"We saw him as much as she did," put in Charity.
"What's he like?"
Nobody answered.
"Is he one of your high-flyers?"
"I don't know what you call high-flyers, aunt Anne," said Madge. "He was a gentleman."
"What do you mean bythat?I saw some 'gentlemen' last summer atAppledore—and I don't want to see no more. Was he that kind?"
"I wasn't there," said Madge, "and can't tell. I should have no objection to see a good many of them, if he is."
"I heard he went to Sunday School with Lois, through the rain."
"How did you know?" said Lois.
"Why shouldn't I know?"
"I thought nobody was out but me."
"Do you think folks will see an umbrella walkin' up street in the rain, and not look to see if there's somebody under it?"
"Ishouldn't," said Lois. "When should an umbrella be out walking, but in the rain?"
"Well, go along. What sort of a man is he? and what brings him toShampuashuh?"
"He came to see Mrs. Barclay," said Madge.
"He's a sort of man you are willin' to take trouble for," said Charity. "Real nice, and considerate; and to hear him talk, it is as good as a book; and he's awfully polite. You should have seen him marching in here with Lois's wet cloak, out to the kitchen with it, and hangin' it up. So to pay, I turned round and hung up his'n. One good turn deserves another, I told him. But at first, I declare, I thought I couldn't keep from laughin'."
Mrs. Marx laughed a little here. "I know the sort," she said. "Wears kid gloves always and a little line of hair over his upper lip, and is lazy like. I would lose all my patience to have one o' them round for long, smokin' a cigar every other thing, and poisonin' all the air for half a mile."
"I think heissort o' lazy," said Charity.
"He don't smoke," said Lois.
"Yes he does," said Madge. "I found an end of cigar just down by the front steps, when I was sweeping."
"I don't think he's a lazy man, either," said Lois. "That slow, easy way does not mean laziness."
"What does it mean?" inquired Mrs. Marx sharply.
"It is nothing to us what it means," said Mrs. Armadale, speaking for the first time. "We have no concern with this man. He came to see Mrs. Barclay, his friend, and I suppose he'll never come again."
"Why shouldn't he come again, mother?" said Charity. "If she's his friend, he might want to see her more than once, seems to me. And what's more, heiscoming again. I heard him askin' her if he might; and then Mrs. Barclay asked me if it would be convenient, and I said it would, of course. He said he would be comin' back from Boston in a few weeks, and he would like to stop again as he went by. And do you knowIthink she coloured. It was only a little, but she ain't a woman to blush much; andIbelieve she knows why he wants to come, as well as he does."
"Nonsense, Charity!" said Madge incredulously.
"Then half the world are busy with nonsense, that's all I have to say; and I'm glad for my part I've somethin' better to do."
"Do you say he's comin' again?" inquired Mrs. Armadale.
"He says so, mother."
"What for?"
"Why, to visit his friend Mrs. Barclay, of course."
"She is our friend," said the old lady; "and her friends must be entertained; but he is notourfriend, children. We ain't of his kind, and he ain't of our'n."
"What's the matter? Ain't he good?" asked Mrs. Marx.
"He'sverygood!" said Madge.
"Not in grandmother's way," said Lois softly.
"Mother," said Mrs. Marx, "you can't have everybody cut out on your pattern."
Mrs. Armadale made no answer.
"And there ain't enough o' your pattern to keep one from bein' lonesome, if we're to have nothin' to do with the rest."
"Better so," said the old lady. "I don't want no company for my chil'en that won't help 'em on the road to heaven. They'll have company enough when they get there."
"And how are you goin' to be the salt o' the earth, then, if you won't touch nothin'?"
"How, if the salt loses its saltness, daughter?"
"Well, mother, it always puzzles me, that there's so much to be said on both sides of things! I'll go home and think about it. Then he ain't one o' your Appledore friends, Lois?"
"Not one of my friends at all, aunt Anne."
So the talk ended. There was a little private extension of it that evening, when Lois and Madge went up to bed.
"It's a pity grandma is so sharp about things," the latter remarked to her sister.
"Things?" said Lois. "What things?"
"Well—people. Don't you like that Mr. Dillwyn?"
"Yes."
"So do I. And she don't want us to have anything to do with him."
"But she is right," said Lois. "He is not a Christian."
"But one can't live only with Christians in this world. And, Lois, I'll tell you what I think; he is a great deal pleasanter than a good many Christians I know."
"He is good company," said Lois. "He has seen a great deal and read a great deal, and he knows how to talk. That makes him pleasant."
"Well, he's a great deal more improving to be with than anybody I know in Shampuashuh."
"In one way."
"Why shouldn't one have the pleasure, then, and the good, if he isn't aChristian?"
"The pleasanter he is, I suppose the more danger, grandmother would think."
"Danger of what?"
"You know, Madge, it is not my say-so, nor even grandmother's. You know, Christians are not of the world."
"But they mustseethe world."
"If we were to see much of that sort of person, we might get to wishing to see them always."
"By 'that sort of person' I suppose you mean Mr. Dillwyn? Well, I have got so far as that already. I wish I could see such people always."
"I am sorry."
"Why? You ought to be glad at my good taste."
"I am sorry, because you are wishing for what you cannot have."
"How do you know that? You cannot tell what may happen."
"Madge, a man like Mr. Dillwyn would never think of a girl like you or me."
"I am not wanting him to think of me," said Madge rather hotly. "But,Lois, if you come to that, I think I—and you—are fit for anybody."
"Yes," said Lois quietly. "I think so too. Buttheydo not take the same view. And if they did, Madge, we could not think of them."
"Why not?—ifthey did. I do not hold quite such extreme rules as you and grandmother do."
"And the Bible."—
"Other people do not think the Bible is so strict."
"You know what the words are, Madge."
"I don't know what the words mean."
Lois was brushing out the thick masses of her beautiful hair, which floated about over her in waves of golden brown; and Madge had been thinking, privately, that if anybody could have just that view of Lois, his scruples—if he had any—would certainly give way. Now, at her sister's last words, however, Lois laid down her brush, and, coming up, laid hold of Madge by the shoulders and gave her a gentle shaking. It ended in something of a romp, but Lois declared Madge should never say such a thing again.
Lois was inclined now to think it might be quite as well if something hindered Mr. Dillwyn's second visit. She did not wonder at Madge's evident fascination; she had felt the same herself long ago, and in connection with other people; the charm of good breeding and gracious manners, and the habit of the world, even apart from knowledge and cultivation and the art of conversation. Yes, Mr. Dillwyn was a good specimen of this sort of attraction; and for a moment Lois's imagination recalled that day's two walks in the rain; then she shook off the impression. Two poor Shampuashuh girls were not likely to have much to do with that sort of society, and—it was best they should not. It would be just as well if Mr. Dillwyn was hindered from coming again.
But he came. A month had passed; it was the beginning of December when he knocked next at the door, and cold and grey and cloudy and windy as it is December's character in certain moods to be. The reception he got was hearty in proportion; fires were larger, the table even more hospitably spread; Mrs. Barclay even more cordial, and the family atmosphere not less genial. Nevertheless the visit, for Mr. Dillwyn's special ends, was hardly satisfactory. He could get no private speech with Lois. She was always "busy;" and at meal-times it was obviously impossible, and would have been impolitic, to pay any particular attention to her. Philip did not attempt it. He talked rather to every one else; made himself delightful company; but groaned in secret.
"Cannot you make some excuse for getting her in here?" he asked Mrs.Barclay at evening.
"Not without her sister."
"With her sister, then."
"They are very busy just now preparing some thing they call 'apple butter.' It's unlucky, Philip. I am very sorry. I always told you your way looked to me intricate."
Fortune favoured him, however, in an unexpected way. After a day passed in much inward impatience, for he had not got a word with Lois, and he had no excuse for prolonging his stay beyond the next day, as they sat at supper, the door opened, and in came two ladies. Mr. Dillwyn was formally presented to one of them as to "my aunt, Mrs. Marx;" the other was named as "Mrs. Seelye." The latter was a neat, brisk little body, with a capable air and a mien of business; all whose words came out as if they had been nicely picked and squared, and sorted and packed, and served in order.
"Sorry to interrupt, Mrs. Armadale" she began, in a chirruping little voice. Indeed, her whole air was that of a notable little hen looking after her chickens. Charity assured her it was no interruption.
"Mrs. Seelye and I had our tea hours ago," said Mrs. Marx. "I had muffins for her, and we ate all we could then. We don't want no more now. We're on business."
"Yes," said Mrs. Seelye. "Mrs. Marx and I, we've got to see everybody, pretty much; and there ain't much time to do it in; so you see we can't choose, and we just come here to see what you'll do for us."
"What do you want us to do for you, Mrs. Seelye?" Lois asked.
"Well, I don't know; only all you can. We want your counsel, and then your help. Mr. Seelye he said, Go to the Lothrop girls first. I didn't comefirst, 'cause there was somebody else on my way here; but this is our fourth call, ain't it, Mrs. Marx?"
"I thought I'd never get you away from No. 3," was the answer.
"They were very much interested,—and I wanted to make them all understand—it was important that they should all understand—"
"And there are different ways of understanin'," added Mrs. Marx; "and there are a good many of 'em—the Hicks's, I mean; and so, when we thought we'd got it all right with one, we found somebody else was in a fog; and thenhehad to be fetched out."
"But we are all in a fog," said Madge, laughing. "What are you coming to? and what are we to understand?"
"We have a little plan," said Mrs. Seelye.
"It'll be a big one, before we get through with it," added her coadjutor. "Nobody'll be frightened here if you call it a big one to start with, Mrs. Seelye. I like to look things in the face."
"So do we," said Mrs. Armadale, with a kind of grim humour,—"if you will give us a chance."
"Well, it's about the children," said Mrs. Seelye.
"Christmas—" added Mrs. Marx.
"Be quiet, Anne," said her mother. "Go on, Mrs. Seelye. Whose children?"
"I might say, they are all Mr. Seelye's children," said the little lady, laughing; "and so they are in a way, as they are all belonging to his church. He feels he is responsible for the care of 'em, and hedon'twant to lose 'em. And that's what it's all about, and how the plan came up."
"How's he goin' to lose 'em?" Mrs. Armadale asked, beginning now to knit again.
"Well, you see the other church is makin' great efforts; and they're goin' to have a tree."
"What sort of a tree? and what do they want a tree for?"
"Why, a fir tree!"—and, "Why, a Christmas tree!" cried the two ladies who advocated the "plan," both in a breath.
"Mother don't know about that," Mrs. Marx went on. "It's a new fashion, mother,—come up since your day. They have a green tree, planted in a tub, and hung with all sorts of things to make it look pretty; little candles especially; and at night they light it up; and the children are tickled to death with it."
"In-doors?"
"Why, of course in-doors. Couldn't be out-of-doors, in the snow."
"I didn't know," said the old lady; "I don't understand the new fashions. I should think they would burn up the house, if it's in-doors."
"O no, no danger," explained Mrs. Seelye. "They make them wonderfully pretty, with the branches all hung full with glass balls, and candles, and ribbands, and gilt toys, and papers of sugar plums—cornucopia, you know; and dolls, and tops, and jacks, and trumpets, and whips, and everything you can think of,—till it is as full as it can be, and the branches hang down with the weight; and it looks like a fairy tree; and then the heavy presents lie at the foot round about and cover the tub."
"I should think the children would be delighted," said Madge.
"I don't believe it's as much fun as Santa Claus and the stocking," said Lois.
"No, nor I," said Mrs. Barclay.
"But we have nothing to do with the children's stockings," said Mrs. Seelye. "They may hang up as many as they like. That's at home. This is in the church."
"O, in the church! I thought you said it was in the house—in people's houses," said Charity.
"So it is; butthistree is to be in the church."
"What tree?"
"La! how stupid you are, Charity," exclaimed her aunt. "Didn't Mrs.Seelye tell you?—the tree the other church are gettin' up."
"Oh—" said Charity. "Well, you can't hinder 'em, as I see."
"Don't want to hinder 'em! What should we hinder 'em for? But we don't want 'em to get all our chil'en away; that's what we're lookin' at."
"Do you think they'd go?"
"Mr. Seelye's afraid it'll thin off the school dreadful," said Mr.Seelye's helpmate.
"They're safe to go," added Mrs. Marx. "Ask children to step in and see fairyland, and why shouldn't they go? I'd go if I was they. All the rest of the year it ain't fairyland in Shampuashuh. I'd go fast enough."
"Then I don't see what you are goin' to do about it," said Charity, "but to sit down and count your chickens that are left."
"That's what we came to tell you," said the minister's wife.
"Well, tell," said Charity. "You haven't told yet, only what the other church is going to do."
"Well, we thought the only way was for us to do somethin' too."
"Only not another tree," said Lois. "Not that, for pity's sake."
"Why not?" asked the little minister's wife, with an air of being somewhat taken aback. "Why haven't we as good a right to have a tree as they have?"
"Right, if you like," said Lois; "but right isn't all."
"Go on, and let's hear your wisdom, Lois," said her aunt. "I s'pose you'll say first, we can't do it."
"We can do it, perhaps," said Lois; "but, aunt Anne, it would make bad feeling."
"That's not our look-out," rejoined Mrs. Marx. "We haven't any bad feeling."
"No, not in the least," added Mrs. Seelye. "Weonly want to give our children as good a time as the others have. That's right."
"'Let nothing be done through strife or vainglory,'" Mrs. Armadale's voice was here heard to say.
"Yes, I know, mother, you have old-fashioned ideas," said Mrs. Marx; "but the world ain't as it used to be when you was a girl. Now everybody's puttin' steam on; and churches and Sunday schools as well as all the rest. We have organs, and choirs, and concerts, and celebrations, and fairs, and festivals; and if we don't go with the crowd, they'll leave us behind, you see."
"I don't believe in it all!" said Mrs. Armadale.
"Well, mother, we've got to take the world as we find it. Now the children all through the village are all agog with the story of what the yellow church is goin' to do; and if the white church don't do somethin', they'll all run t'other way—that you may depend on. Children are children."
"I sometimes think the grown folks are children," said the old lady.
"Well, we ought to be children," said Mrs. Seelye; "I am sure we all know that. But Mr. Seelye thought this was the only thing we could do."
"There comes in the second difficulty, Mrs. Seelye," said Lois. "We cannot do it."
"I don't see why we cannot. We've as good a place for it, quite."
"I mean, we cannot do it satisfactorily. It will not be the same thing.We cannot raise the money. Don't it take a good deal?"
"Well, it takes considerable. But I think, if we all try, we can scare it up somehow."
Lois shook her head. "The other church is richer than we are," she said.
"That's a fact," said Charity.
Mrs. Seelye hesitated. "I don't know," she said,—"they have one or two rich men. Mr. Georges—"
"O, and Mr. Flare," cried Madge, "and Buck, and Setterdown; and theRopers and the Magnuses."
"Yes," said Mrs. Seelye; "but we have more people, and there's none of 'em to call poor. If we get 'em interested—and those we have spoken to are very much taken with the plan—very much; I think it would be a great disappointment now if we were to stop; and the children have got talking about it. I think we can do it; and it would be a very good thing for the whole church, to get 'em interested."
"You can always get people interested in play," said Mrs. Armadale."What you want, is to get 'em interested in work."
"There'll be a good deal of work about this, before it's over," said Mrs. Seelye, with a pleased chuckle. "And I think, when they get their pride up, the money will be coming."
Mrs. Marx made a grimace, but said nothing.
"'When pride cometh, than cometh shame,'" said Mrs. Armadale quietly.
"O yes, some sorts of pride," said the little minister's wife briskly; "but I mean a proper sort. We don't want to let our church go down, and we don't want to have our Sunday school thinned out; and I can tell you, where the children go, there the fathers and mothers will be going, next thing."
"What do you propose to do?" said Lois. "We have not fairly heard yet."
"Well, we thought we'd have some sort of celebration, and give the school a jolly time somehow. We'd dress up the church handsomely with evergreens; and have it well lighted; and then, we would have a Christmas tree if we could. Or, if we couldn't, then we'd have a real good hot supper, and give the children presents. But I'm afraid, if we don't have a tree, they'll all run off to the other church; and I think they're going already, so as to get asked. Mr. Seelye said the attendance was real thin last Sabbath."
There followed an animated discussion of the whole subject, with every point brought up again, and again and again. The talkers were, for the most part, Charity and Madge, with the two ladies who had come in; Mrs. Armadale rarely throwing in a word, which always seemed to have a disturbing power; and things were taken up and gone over anew to get rid of the disturbance. Lois sat silent and played with her spoon. Mrs. Barclay and Philip listened with grave amusement.
"Well, I can't sit here all night," said Charity at last, rising from behind her tea-board. "Madge and Lois,—just jump up and put away the things, won't you; and hand me up the knives and plates. Don't trouble yourself, Mrs. Barclay. If other folks in the village are as busy as I am, you'll come short home for your Christmas work, Mrs. Seelye."
"It's the busy people always that help," said the little lady propitiatingly.
"That's a fact; but I don't see no end o' this to take hold of. You hain't got the money; and if you had it, you don't know what you want; and if you did know, it ain't in Shampuashuh; and I don't see who is to go to New York or New Haven, shopping for you. And if you had it, who knows how to fix a Christmas tree? Not a soul in our church."
Mrs. Barclay and her guest withdrew at this point of the discussion. But later, when the visitors were gone, she opened the door of her room, and said,
"Madge and Lois, can you come in here for a few minutes? It is business."
The two girls came in, Madge a little eagerly; Lois, Mrs. Barclay fancied, with a manner of some reserve.
"Mr. Dillwyn has something to suggest," she began, "about this plan we have heard talked over; that is, if you care about it's being carried into execution."
"I care, of course," said Madge. "If it is to be done, I think it will be great fun."
"If it is to be done," Lois repeated. "Grandmother does not approve of it; and I always think, what she does not like, I must not like."
"Always?" asked Mr. Dillwyn.
"I try to have it always. Grandmother thinks that the way—the best way—to keep a Sunday school together, is to make the lessons interesting."
"I am sure she is right!" said Mr. Dillwyn.
"But to the point," said Mrs. Barclay. "Lois, they will do this thing, I can see. The question now is, do you care whether it is done ill or well?"
"Certainly! If it is done, I should wish it to be as well done as possible. Failure is more than failure."
"How about ways and means?"
"Money? O, if the people all set their hearts on it, they could do it well enough. But they are slow to take hold of anything out of the common run they are accustomed to. The wheels go in ruts at Shampuashuh."
"Shampuashuh is not the only place," said Philip. "Then will you let an outsider help?"
"Help? We would be very glad of help," said Madge; but Lois remarked,"I think the church ought to do it themselves, if they want to do it."
"Well, hear my plan," said Mr. Dillwyn. "I think you objected to two rival trees?"
"I object to rival anythings," said Lois; "in church matters especially."
"Then I propose that no tree be set up, but instead, that you let SantaClaus come in with his sledge."
"Santa Claus!" cried Lois. "Who would be Santa Claus?"
"An old man in a white mantle, his head and beard covered with snow and fringed with icicles; his dress of fur; his sledge a large one, and well heaped up with things to delight the children. What do you think?"
Madge's colour rose, and Lois's eye took a sparkle; both were silent.Then Madge spoke.
"I don't see how that plan could be carried out, any more than the other. It is a great dealbetter, it is magnificent; but it is a great deal too magnificent for Shampuashuh."
"Why so?"
"Nobody here knows how to do it."
"I know how."
"You! O but,—that would be too much—"
"All you have to do is to get the other things ready, and let it be known that at the proper time Santa Claus will appear, with a well-furnished sled. Sharp on time."
"Well-furnished!—but there again—I don't believe we can raise money enough for that."
"How much money?" asked Dillwyn, with an amused smile.
"O, I can't tell—I suppose a hundred dollars at least."
"I have as much as that lying useless—it may just as well do some good. It never was heard that anybody but Santa Claus furnished his own sled. If you will allow me, I will take care of that."
"How splendid!" cried Madge. "But it is too much; it wouldn't be right for us to let you do all that for a church that is nothing to you."
"On the contrary, you ought to encourage me in my first endeavours to make myself of some use in the world. Miss Madge, I have never, so far, done a bit of good in my life."
"O, Mr. Dillwyn! I cannot believe that. People do not grow useful so all of a sudden, without practice," said Madge, hitting a great general truth.
"It is a fact, however," said he, half lightly, and yet evidently meaning what he said. "I have lived thirty-two years in the world—nearly thirty-three—without making my life of the least use to anybody so far as I know. Do you wonder that I seize a chance?"
Lois's eyes were suddenly lifted, and then as suddenly lowered; she did not speak.
"I can read that," he said laughingly, for his eyes had caught the glance. "You mean, if I am so eager for chances, I might make them! Miss Lois, I do not know how."
"Come, Philip," said Mrs. Barclay, "you are making your character unnecessarily bad. I know you better than that. Think what you have done for me."
"I beg your pardon," said he. "Think what you have done for me. That score cannot be reckoned to my favour. Have no scruples, Miss Madge, about employing me. Though I believe Miss Lois thinks the good of this undertaking a doubtful one. How many children does your school number?"
"All together,—and they would be sure for once to be all together!—there are a hundred and fifty."
"Have you the names?"
"O, certainly."
"And ages—proximately?"
"Yes, that too."
"And you know something, I suppose, about many of them; something about their families and conditions?"
"Aboutallof them?" said Madge. "Yes, indeed we do."
"Till Mrs. Barclay came, you must understand," put in Lois here, "we had nothing, or not much, to study besides Shampuashuh; so we studied that."
"And since Mrs. Barclay came?—" asked Philip.
"O, Mrs. Barclay has been opening one door after another of knowledge, and we have been peeping in."
"And what special door offers most attraction to your view, of them all?"
"I don't know. I think, perhaps, for me, geology and mineralogy; but almost every one helps in the study of the Bible."
"O, do they!" said Dillwyn somewhat dryly.
"I like music best," said Madge.
"But that is not a door into knowledge," objected Lois.
"I meant, of all the doors Mrs. Barclay has opened to us."
"Mrs. Barclay is a favoured person."
"It is we that are favoured," said Madge. "Our life is a different thing since she came. We hope she will never go away." Then Madge coloured, with some sudden thought, and she went back to the former subject. "Why do you ask about the children's ages and all that, Mr. Dillwyn?"
"I was thinking— When a thing is to be done, I like to do it well. It occurred to me, that as Santa Claus must have something on his sledge for each one, it might be good, if possible, to secure some adaptation or fitness in the gift. Those who would like books should have books, and the right books; and playthings had better not go astray, if we can help it; and perhaps the poorer children would be better for articles of clothing.—I am only throwing out hints."
"Capital hints!" said Lois. "You mean, if we can tell what would be good for each one—I think we can, pretty nearly. But there are fewpoorpeople in Shampuashuh, Mr. Dillwyn."
"Shampuashuh is a happy place."
"This plan will give you an immensity of work, Mr. Dillwyn."
"What then?"
"I have scruples. It is not fair to let you do it. What is Shampuashuh to you?"
"It might be difficult to make that computation," said Mr. Dillwyn dryly. "Have no scruples, Miss Lois. As I told you, I have nothing better to do with myself. If you can make me useful, it will be a rare chance."
"But there are plenty of other things to do, Mr. Dillwyn," said Lois.
He gave her only a glance and smile by way of answer, and plunged immediately into the business question with Madge. Lois sat by, silent and wondering, till all was settled that could be settled that evening, and she and Madge went back to the other room.
"Hurrah!" cried Madge, but softly—"Now it will go! Mother! what do you think? Guess, Charity! Mr. Dillwyn is going to take our Sunday school celebration on himself; he's going to do it; and we're to have, not a stupid Christmas tree, but Santa Claus and his sled; and he'll be Santa Claus! Won't it be fun?"
"Who'll be Santa Claus?" said Charity, looking stupefied.
"Mr. Dillwyn. In fact, he'll be Santa Claus and his sled too; he'll do the whole thing. All we have got to do is to dress the children and ourselves, and light up the church."
"Will the committees like that?"
"Like it? Of course they will! Like it, indeed! Don't you see it will save them all expense? They'll have nothing to do but dress up and light up."
"And warm up too, I hope. What makes Mr. Dillwyn do all that? I don't just make out."
"I'll tell you," said Madge, shaking her finger at the others impressively. "He's after Mrs. Barclay. So this gives him a chance to come here again, don't you see?"
"After Mrs. Barclay?" repeated Charity. "I want to know!"
"I don't believe it," said Lois. "She is too old for him."
"She's not old," said Madge. "And he is no chicken, my dear. You'll see. It's she he's after. He's coming next time as Santa Claus, that's all. And we have got to make out a list of things—things for presents,—for every individual girl and boy in the Sunday school; there's a job for you. Santa Claus will want a big sled."
"Whois going to dowhat?" inquired Mrs. Armadale here. "I don't understand, you speak so fast, children."
"Mother, instead of a Christmas tree, we are going to have Santa Claus and his sled; and the sled is to be heaped full of presents for all the children; and Mr. Dillwyn is going to do it, and get the presents, and be Santa Claus himself."
"How,beSanta Claus?"
"Why, he will dress up like Santa Claus, and come in with his sled."
"Where?"
"In the church, grandmother; there is no other place. The other church have their Sunday-school room you know; but we have none."
"They are going to have their tree in the church, though," said Charity; "they reckon the Sunday-school room won't be big enough to hold all the folks."
"Are they going to turn the church into a playhouse?" Mrs. Armadale asked.
"It's for the sake of the church and the school, you know, mother. Santa Claus will come in with his sled and give his presents,—that is all. At least, that is all the play there will be."
"What else will there be?"
"O, there'll be singing, grandma," said Madge; "hymns and carols and such things, that the children will sing; and speeches and prayers, I suppose."
"The church used to be God's house, in my day," said the old lady, with a concerned face, looking up from her knitting, while her fingers went on with their work as busily as ever.
"They don't mean it for anything else, grandmother," said Madge. "It's all for the sake of the school."
"Maybe they think so," the old lady answered.
"What else, mother? what else should it be?"
But this she did not answer.
"What's Mr. Dillwyn got to do with it?" she asked presently.
"He's going to help," said Madge. "It's nothing but kindness. He supposes it is something good to do, and he says he'd like to be useful."
"He hain't no idea how," said Mrs. Armadale, "Poor creatur'! You can tell him, it ain't the Lord's work he's doin'."
"But we cannot tell him that, mother," said Lois.
"If the people want to have this celebration,—and they will,—hadn't we better make it a good one? Is it really a bad thing?"
"The devil's ways never help no one to heaven, child, not if they go singin' hymns all the way."
"But, mother!" cried Madge. "Mr. Dillwyn ain't a Christian, maybe, but he ain't as bad as that."
"I didn't mean Mr. Dillwyn, dear, nor no one else. I meant theatre work."
"Santa Claus, mother?"
"It's actin', ain't it?"
The girls looked at each other.
"There's very little of anything like acting about it," Lois said.
"'Make straight paths for your feet'!" said Mrs. Armadale, rising to go to bed. "'Make straight paths for your feet,' children. Straight ways is the shortest too. If the chil'en that don't love their teachers wants to go to the yellow church, let 'em go. I'd rather have the Lord in a little school, than Santa Claus in a big one."
She was leaving the room, but the girls stayed her and begged to know what they should do in the matter of the lists they were engaged to prepare for Mr. Dillwyn.
"You must do what you think best," she said. "Only don't be mixed up with it all any more than you can help, Lois."
Why did the name of one child come to her lips and not the other? Did the old lady's affection, or natural acuteness, discern that Mr. Dillwyn wasnotdrawn to Shampuashuh by any particular admiration of his friend Mrs. Barclay? Had she some of that preternatural intuition, plain old country woman though she was, which makes a woman see the invisible and hear the inaudible? which serves as one of the natural means of defence granted to the weaker creatures. I do not know; I do not think she knew; however, the warning was given, and not on that occasion alone. And as Lois heeded all her grandmother's admonitions, although in this case without the most remote perception of this possible ground to them, it followed that Mr. Dillwyn gained less by his motion than he had hoped and anticipated.
The scheme went forward, hailed by the whole community belonging to the white church, with the single exception of Mrs. Armadale. It went forward and was brought to a successful termination. I might say, a triumphant termination; only the triumph was not for Mr. Dillwyn, or not in the line where he wanted it. He did his part admirably. A better Santa Claus was never seen, nor a better filled sled. And genial pleasantness, and wise management, and cool generalship, and fun and kindness, were never better represented. So it was all through the consultations and arrangements that preceded the festival, as well as on the grand occasion itself; and Shampuashuh will long remember the time with wonder and exultation; but it was Madge who was Mr. Dillwyn's coadjutor and fellow-counsellor. It was Madge and Mrs. Barclay who helped him in all the work of preparing and ticketing the parcels for the sled; as well as in the prior deliberations as to what the parcels should be. Madge seemed to be the one at hand always to answer a question. Madge went with him to the church; and in general, Lois, though sympathizing and curious, and interested and amused, was very much out of the play. Not so entirely as to make the fact striking; only enough to leave Mr. Dillwyn disappointed and tantalized.
I am not going into a description of the festival and the show. The children sang; the minister made a speech to them, not ten consecutive words of which were listened to by three-quarters of the people. The church was filled with men, women, and children; the walls were hung with festoons and wreaths, and emblazoned with mottoes; the anthems and carols followed each other till the last thread of patience in the waiting crowd gave way. And at last came what they were waiting for—Santa Claus, all fur robes and snow and icicles, dragging after him a sledge that looked like a small mountain with the heap of articles piled and packed upon it. And then followed a very busy and delightful hour and a half, during which the business was—the distribution of pleasure. It was such warm work for Santa Claus, that at the time he had no leisure for thinking. Naturally, the thinking came afterwards.
He and Mrs. Barclay sat by her fire, resting, after coming home from the church. Dillwyn was very silent and meditative.
"You must be glad it is done, Philip," said his friend, watching him, and wishing to get at his thoughts.
"I have no particular reason to be glad."
"You have done a good thing."
"I am not sure if it is a good thing. Mrs. Armadale does not think so."
"Mrs. Armadale has rather narrow notions."
"I don't know. I should be glad to be sure she is not right. It's discouraging," he added, with half a smile;—"for the first time in my life I set myself to work; and now am not at all certain that I might not just as well have been idle."
"Work is a good thing in itself," said Mrs. Barclay, smiling.
"Pardon me!—work for an end. Work without an end—or with the end not attained—it is no better than a squirrel in a wheel."
"You have given a great deal of pleasure."
"To the children! For ought I know, they might have been just as well without it. There will be a reaction to-morrow, very likely; and then they will wish they had gone to see the Christmas tree at the other church."
"But they were kept at their own church."
"How do I know that is any good? Perhaps the teaching at the other school is the best."
"You are tired," said Mrs. Barclay sympathizingly.
"Not that. I have done nothing to tire me; but it strikes me it is very difficult to see one's ends in doing good; much more difficult than to see the way to the ends."
"You have partly missed your end, haven't you?" said Mrs. Barclay softly.
He moved a little restlessly in his chair; then got up and began to walk about the room; then came and sat down again.
"What are you going to do next?" she asked in the same way.
"Suppose you invite them—the two girls—or her alone—to make you a visit in New York?"
"Where?"
"At any hotel you prefer; say, the Windsor."
"O Philip, Philip!"—
"What?—You could have pleasant rooms, and be quite private and comfortable; as much as if you were in your own house."
"And what should we cost you?"
"You are not thinking ofthat?" said he. "I will get you a house, if you like it better; but then you would have the trouble of a staff of servants. I think the Windsor would be much the easiest plan."
"Youarein earnest!"
"In earnest!" he repeated in surprise. "Have you ever questioned it? You judge because you never saw me in earnest in anything before in my life."
"No, indeed," said Mrs. Barclay. "I always knew it was in you. What you wanted was only an object."
"What do you say to my plan?"
"I am afraid they would not come. There is the care of the old grandmother; they would not leave everything to their sister alone."
"Tempt them with pictures and music, and the opera."
"The opera! Philip, she would not go to a theatre, or anything theatrical, for any consideration. They are very strict on that point, and Sunday-keeping, and dancing. Do not speak to her of the opera."