Nobody

The whole family went to church the next morning. Mr. Dillwyn'sparticular object, however, was not much furthered. He saw Lois, indeed, at the breakfast table; and the sight was everything his fancyhad 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, sweetfreshness about Lois which gave the idea of more life and activity, mental and bodily, than could consort with a pensive character. Therest 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 thefamily set out; and in church she did not sit with the others; and shedid not come home with them. However, she was at dinner. Butimmediately after dinner Mrs. Barclay with drew again into her ownroom, 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 hadcome; 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 thecompass at once. The lines of rain-drops went slantwise past thewindows, and then beat violently upon them; the ground was wet in a fewminutes; the sky was dark with its thick watery veils. Wind and rainwere holding revelry.

"She will not go out in this weather," said the gentleman, withconviction which seemed to be agreeable.

"The weather will not hinder her," returned Mrs. Barclay.

"This weather?"

"No. Lois does not mind weather. I have learned to know her by thistime. Where she thinks she ought to go, or what she thinks she ought todo, there no hindrance will stop her. It is good you should learn toknow her too, Philip."

"Pray tell me, – is the question of 'ought' never affected by whatshould 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'swho said, you know, when ordered upon some difficult duty, 'Sir, if itis possible, it shall be done; and if it is impossible, it must bedone!'"

"That will do for a soldier,", said Dillwyn. "At what o'clock does shego?"

"In about a quarter of an hour I shall expect to hear her feetpattering softly through the hall, and then the door will open and shutwithout noise, and a dark figure will shoot past the windows."

Mr. Dillwyn left the room, and probably made some preparations; forwhen, a few minutes later, a figure all wrapped up in a waterproofcloak did pass softly through the hall, he came out of Mrs. Barclay'sroom 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 thedoor.

"You have no umbrella?"

"Don't need it. I am all protected, don't you see? Mr. Dillwyn, you are 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 callsyou 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, andstood 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 goingup the street with him by her side, and the umbrella warding off thewind and rain from her face. It was vexatious and amusing. From herface! who had faced Sharnpuashuh storms ever since she could remember.It is very odd to be taken care of on a sudden, when you areaccustomed, and perfectly able, to take care of your self. It is alsoagreeable.

"You had better take my arm, Miss Lois," said her companion. "I couldshield you better."

"Well," said Lois, half laughing, "since you are here, I may as welltake 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 wastaking you out into this storm; but I confess my curiosity to know whatduty could have the right to do it. If my curiosity is indiscreet, youcan rebuke it."

"It is not indiscreet," said Lois. "I have a sort of a Bible class, inthe 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 haveasked. 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."

"Do you expect them, to come out to-day?"

"Not all of them," Lois allowed. "But if there would not be one, still

I 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 inthe work by my desire to do it. And one can do so little in this worldat 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 oneof Mrs. Barclay's books – 'the Life and Correspondence of JohnFoster,' – '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 getrid of the element of terribleness."

"Yes, – if duty is neglected. Not if duty is done."

"Who does his duty, at that rate?"

"Some people try," said Lois.

"And that trying must make life a servitude."

"Service – not servitude!" exclaimed Lois again, with the samewholesome, hearty ring in her voice that her companion had noticedbefore.

"How do you draw the line between them?" he asked, with an inwardsmile; and yet Mr. Dillwyn was earnest enough too.

"There is more than a line between them," said Lois. "There is all thedistance between freedom and slavery." And the words recurred to her,"I will walk at liberty, for I seek thy precepts;" but she judgedthey would not be familiar to her companion nor meet appreciation fromhim, so she did not speak them. "Service," she went on, "I think isone of the noblest words in the world; but it cannot be renderedservilely. It must be free, from the heart."

"You make nice distinctions. Service, I suppose you mean, of one'sfellow creatures?"

"No," said Lois, "I do not mean that. Service must be given to God. Itwill 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'sneedy 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 thetrue. It is partial, and arbitrary; it ebbs and flows, and chooses; andis found consorting with what is not service, but the contrary. Trueservice, given to God, and rising from the love of him, goes where itis sent and does what it is bidden, and has too high a spring ever tofail. Real service gives all, and is ready for everything."

"How much do you mean, I wonder, by 'giving all'? Do you use the wordssoberly?"

"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 gave all hehad?"

"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 andstood 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 givethem.

"There would be left for him – all that the riches and love of God coulddo 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 simpleunconsciousness, – and for the moment did not think of replying. ThenLois 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, Ithink, of holding forth so to people who ought to know better thanmyself."

"I am sure you are aware that I was speaking honestly, and that I donot know better?" he said.

"I suppose I thought so," Lois answered. "But that does not quiteexcuse me. Only – I was sorry for you, Mr. Dillwyn."

"Thank you. Now, may I go on? The conversation can hardly be sointeresting 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 fromFoster, if it is true, is overwhelming. If it is true, it leaves allthe world with terrible arrears of obligation."

"Yes," Lois answered half reluctantly, – "duty unfulfilled is terrible. 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 dotry to do all I know. But there are a great many beside me, who dobetter."

"You agree then, that one is not bound by duties unknown?"

Lois hesitated. "You are making me talk again, as if I were wise," shesaid. "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 questionwith the least hope of having it answered."

"Where is your minister?"

"My minister? Clergyman, you mean? Miss Lois, I have been a wandererover the earth for years. I have not any 'minister.'"

Lois was silent again. They had been walking fast, as well as talkingfast, 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 myplace."

"Which is your place?"

"Do you see that old schoolhouse, a little further on? We have that forour meetings. Some of the boys put it in order and make the fire forme."

"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 waitto 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 theschoolhouse door, the wind and rain came with such a wild burst, thatit seemed the one thing to do to get under shelter; and so Mr. Dillwynwent 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 orseeming of comfort; the wooden chairs and benches were old and hard; however, the small stove did give out warmth enough to make the placehabitable, even to its furthest corners. Six people were already there.Lois gave a rapid glance at the situation. There was no time, and itwas no company for a prolonged battle with the intruder.

"Mr. Dillwyn," she said softly, "will you take a seat by the stove, asfar from us as you can; and make believe you have neither eyes norears? 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 cankeep up the fire for us."

She turned from him to greet her young friends, and Mr. Dillwyn obeyedorders. He hung up his wet hat and coat and sat down in the furthestcorner; placing himself so, however, that neither eyes nor ears shouldbe hindered in the exercise of their vocation, while his attitude mighthave suggested a fit of sleepiness, or a most indifferent meditation onthings far distant, or possibly rest after severe exertion. Lois andher six scholars took their places at the other end of the room, whichwas too small to prevent every word they spoke from being distinctlyheard by the one idle spectator. A spectator in truth Mr. Dillwyndesired to be, not merely an auditor; so, as he had been warned he mustnot be seen to look, he arranged himself in a manner to serve bothpurposes, of seeing and not seeing.

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.