The hour was not long to this one spectator, although it extendeditself to full an hour and a half. He gave as close attention as everwhen 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 thelecturer. And the study grew intense. It was not flattering toperceive, as he soon did, that Lois had entirely forgotten hispresence. 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, andit cast a little shadow upon him, but it was convenient for his presentpurpose of observation. So he watched, – and listened. He heard thesweet utterance and clear enunciation, first of all; he heard them, itis true, whenever she spoke; but now the utterance sounded sweeter thanusual, as if there were a vibration from some fuller than usual mentalharmony, and the voice was of a silvery melody. It contrasted with theother voices, which were more or less rough or grating or nasal, toohigh pitched or low, and rough-cadenced, as uncultured voices are aptto be. From the voices, Mr. Dillwyn's attention was drawn to what thevoices said. And here he found, most unexpectedly, a great deal tointerest him. Those rough voices spoke words of genuine intelligence; they expressed earnest interest; and they showed the speakers to beacute, thoughtful, not uninformed, quick to catch what was presented tothem, often cunning to deal with it. Mr. Dillwyn was in danger ofsmiling, more than once. And Lois met them, if not with the skill of apractised logician, with the quick wit of a woman's intuition and awoman's loving sympathy, armed with knowledge, and penetration, andtact, and gentleness, and wisdom. It was something delightful to hearher soft accents answer them, with such hidden strength under theirsoftness; it was charming to see her gentleness and patience, andeagerness too; for Lois was talking with all her heart. Mr. Dillwynlost his wonder that her class came out in the rain; he only wished hecould 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 beforethem. They would not have been worthy to see it else. Lois had laid offher bonnet in the hot little room; it had left her hair a littleloosened and disordered; yet not with what deserved to be calleddisorder; it was merely a softening and lifting of the rich, fullmasses, adding to the grace of the contour, not taking from it. Nothingcould be plainer than the girl's dress; all the more the observer's eyenoted the excellent lines of the figure and the natural charm of everymovement and attitude. The charm that comes, and always must come, frominward refinement and delicacy, when combined with absence ofconsciousness; and which can only be helped, not produced, by anyperfection of the physical structure. Then the tints of absolutehealth, and those low, musical, sensitive tones, flowing on in suchsweet 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 Biblelesson betrayed the refinement of mental training and culture; even themanagement of the voice told of it. Here was not a fine machine, soundand good, yet in need of regulating, and working, and lubricating toget it in order; all that had been done, and the smooth running toldhow well. By degrees Mr. Dillwyn forgot the lesson, and the class, andthe schoolhouse, and remembered but one thing any more; and that wasLois. His head and heart grew full of her. He had been in the grasp ofa strong fancy before; a fancy strong enough to make him spend money, and spend time, for the possible attainment of its object; now it wasfancy no longer. He had made up his mind, as a man makes it up once forall; not to try to win Lois, but to have her. She, he saw, was as yetungrazed by any corresponding feeling towards him. That made nodifference. Philip Dillwyn had one object in life from this time. Hehardly saw or heard Lois's leave-takings with her class, but as shecame up to him he rose.
"I have kept you too long, Mr. Dillwyn; but I could not help it; andreally, you know, it was your own fault."
"Not a minute too long," he assured her; and he put on her cloak andhanded her her bonnet with grave courtesy, and a manner which Loiswould have said was absorbed, but for a certain element in it whicheven then struck her. They set out upon their homeward way, but thewalk home was not as the walk out had been. The rain and the wind wereunchanged; the wind, indeed, had an added touch of waywardness as theymore nearly faced it, going this way; and the rain was driven againstthem 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 hadbeen violent enough before, and it was no feature of that which madethe difference. Neither was it the fact that both parties were nowalmost silent, whereas on the way out they had talked incessantly; though it was a fact. Perhaps Lois was tired with talking, seeing shehad been doing nothing else for two hours, but what ailed Philip? Andwhat gave the walk its new character? Lois did not know, though shefelt 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 beentaking care of her before; but now, unconsciously, he was doing it as aman only does it for one woman in the world. Hardly more careful ofher, yet with that indefinable something in the manner of it, whichLois felt even in the putting on of her cloak in the schoolhouse. Itwas something she had never touched before in her life, and did not nowknow what it meant; at least I should say her reason did not know; yet nature answered to nature infallibly, and by some hidden intuitionof recognition the girl was subdued and dumb. This was nothing like TomCaruthers, and anything she had received from him. Tom had beenflattering, demonstrative, obsequious; there was no flattery here, andno demonstration, and nothing could be farther from obsequiousness. Itwas the delicate reverence which a man gives to only one woman of allthe world; something that must be felt and cannot be feigned; the mostsubtle incense of worship one human spirit can render to another; whichthe one renders and the other receives, without either being able totell how it is done. The more is the incense sweet, penetrating, powerful. Lois went home silently, through the rain and wind, and didnot know why a certain mist of happiness seemed to encompass her. Shewas ignorant why the storm was so very beneficent in its action; didnot know why the wind was so musical and the rain so refreshing; couldnot guess why she was sorry to get home. Yet the fact was before her asshe stepped in.
"It has done you no harm!" said Mr. Dillwyn, smiling, as he met Lois'seyes, 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 hercloak; "it has caught more rain-drops than you know." And Loissubmitted, and meekly stood still and allowed the cloak, very wet onone 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.
"I will hang it up to dry in the kitchen, – if you will show me theway. You cannot handle it."
Lois could have laughed, for did she not handle everything? and did wetor dry make any difference to her? However, she did not on thisoccasion feel like contesting the matter; but with unwonted docilitypreceded Mr. Dillwyn through the sitting-room, where were Mrs. Armadaleand Madge, to the kitchen beyond, where Charity was just putting on thetea-kettle.
CHAPTER XXXV
OPINIONS
Mr. Dillwyn rejoined Mrs. Barclay in her parlour, but he was a lessentertaining man this evening than he had been during the former partof his visit. Mrs. Barclay saw it, and smiled, and sighed. Even at thetea-table things were not like last evening. Philip entered into nodiscussions, made no special attempts to amuse anybody, attended to hisduties in the unconscious way of one with whom they have become secondnature, and talked only so much as politeness required. Mrs. Barclaylooked 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 hadbecome a usual Sunday evening entertainment. Mrs. Barclay played, andshe and the two girls sang. It was all sacred music, of course, variedexceedingly, however, by the various tastes of the family. Old hymn andpsaulm tunes were what Mrs. Armadale liked; and those generally camefirst; then the girls had more modern pieces, and with those Mrs.Barclay interwove an anthem or a chant now and then. Madge and Loisboth had good voices and good natural taste and feeling; and Mrs.Barclay's instructions had been eagerly received. This evening Philipjoined the choir; and Charity declared it was "better'n they could doin the Episcopal church."
"Do they have the best singing in the Episcopal church?" asked Philipabsently.
"Well, they set up to; and you see they give more time to it. Our folkswon't practise."
"I don't care how folk's voices sound, if their hearts are in it,"said Mrs. Armadale.
"But you may notice, voices sound better if hearts are in it," saidDillwyn. "That made a large part of the beauty of our concert thisevening."
"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 wayyou mean, madam. If I must answer truth."
"Don't you always speak truth?"
"I believe I may say, that is my 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 andmanner, a touch of solemnity in her voice, which made the gentlemanforgive 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. Doyou 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 arenever held responsible for the things they sing, – out of church," addedPhilip, 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 rightstate; – 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."
"I thought the words was to tell one how we had ought to feel!" saidCharity. "There wouldn't more'n one in a dozen sing, mother, if you hadyour way; and then we should have nice music!"
"I think it would be nice music," said the old lady, with a kind ofsober tremble in her voice, which somehow touched Philip. The ring oftruth 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 thembetter, 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, andbelieving 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, "he does have 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 leavingthe dining-room, whither they had all gone to eat apples. As Philipparted 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 beforeturning away; swift with eagerness and intent with some hidden feelingwhich 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 thinkof 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, Ibelieve. 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 inhis hand he sat down before the fire and studied the open page. Studiedwith grave thoughtfulness, drawing his brows a little, and ponderingwith eyes fixed on the words for some length of time. Then he bade hergood-night with a smile, and went away.
He went away in good earnest next day; but as a subject of conversationin 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 walkin 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 toanother. Besides, I didn't know but you'd want an extra quantity, ifyour 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 'emjust 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 aporker's heart dance for joy; and I should think they were sufferin'from continual lowness o' spirits, to judge by the way they don't getfat. They're growing real long-legged and slab-sided – just the way Ihate 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. "Hewas a gentleman."
"What do you mean by that? I saw some 'gentlemen' last summer at
Appledore – 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 noobjection 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?"
"I shouldn'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 to
Shampuashuh?"
"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 abook; and he's awfully polite. You should have seen him marching inhere with Lois's wet cloak, out to the kitchen with it, and hangin' itup. So to pay, I turned round and hung up his'n. One good turn deservesanother, I told him. But at first, I declare, I thought I couldn't keepfrom laughin'."
Mrs. Marx laughed a little here. "I know the sort," she said. "Wearskid gloves always and a little line of hair over his upper lip, and islazy like. I would lose all my patience to have one o' them round forlong, smokin' a cigar every other thing, and poisonin' all the air forhalf a mile."
"I think he is sort o' lazy," said Charity.
"He don't smoke," said Lois.
"Yes he does," said Madge. "I found an end of cigar just down by thefront steps, when I was sweeping."
"I don't think he's a lazy man, either," said Lois. "That slow, easyway does not mean laziness."
"What does it mean?" inquired Mrs. Marx sharply.
"It is nothing to us what it means," said Mrs. Armadale, speaking forthe 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 hisfriend, he might want to see her more than once, seems to me. Andwhat's more, he is coming again. I heard him askin' her if he might; and then Mrs. Barclay asked me if it would be convenient, and I said itwould, of course. He said he would be comin' back from Boston in a fewweeks, and he would like to stop again as he went by. And do you knowI think she coloured. It was only a little, but she ain't a woman toblush much; and I believe she knows why he wants to come, as well ashe 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 beentertained; but he is not our friend, children. We ain't of hiskind, and he ain't of our'n."
"What's the matter? Ain't he good?" asked Mrs. Marx.
"He's very good!" said Madge.
"Not in grandmother's way," said Lois softly.
"Mother," said Mrs. Marx, "you can't have everybody cut out on yourpattern."
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'enthat won't help 'em on the road to heaven. They'll have company enoughwhen they get there."
"And how are you goin' to be the salt o' the earth, then, if you won'ttouch nothin'?"
"How, if the salt loses its saltness, daughter?"
"Well, mother, it always puzzles me, that there's so much to be said onboth sides of things! I'll go home and think about it. Then he ain'tone 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 thatevening, when Lois and Madge went up to bed.
"It's a pity grandma is so sharp about things," the latter remarked toher 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'lltell you what I think; he is a great deal pleasanter than a good manyChristians I know."
"He is good company," said Lois. "He has seen a great deal and read agreat 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 knowin Shampuashuh."
"In one way."
"Why shouldn't one have the pleasure, then, and the good, if he isn't a
Christian?"
"The pleasanter he is, I suppose the more danger, grandmother wouldthink."
"Danger of what?"
"You know, Madge, it is not my say-so, nor even grandmother's. Youknow, Christians are not of the world."
"But they must see the world."
"If we were to see much of that sort of person, we might get to wishingto see them always."
"By 'that sort of person' I suppose you mean Mr. Dillwyn? Well, I havegot 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 orme."
"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. But they do not take thesame view. And if they did, Madge, we could not think of them."
"Why not? —if they did. I do not hold quite such extreme rules as youand 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, whichfloated about over her in waves of golden brown; and Madge had beenthinking, privately, that if anybody could have just that view of Lois, his scruples – if he had any – would certainly give way. Now, at hersister'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. Itended in something of a romp, but Lois declared Madge should never saysuch a thing again.