Nobody

"I wish you'd let Mr. Dillwyn have some more oysters," said Charity;"and, Madge, do hand along Mrs. Barclay's cup. You mustn't talk, if youcan't eat at the same time. Lois ain't Solomon yet, if she does preach.You shut up, Lois, and mind your supper. My rule is, to enjoy things asI go along; and just now, it's oysters."

"I will say for Lois," here put in Mrs. Barclay, "that she doesexemplify her own principles. I never knew anybody with such a springof perpetual enjoyment."

"She ain't happier than the rest of us," said the elder sister.

"Not so happy as grandmother," added Madge. "At least, grandmotherwould say so. I don't know."

CHAPTER XXXVIII

BREAKING UP

Mr. Dillwyn went away. Things returned to their normal condition atShampuashuh, saving that for a while there was a great deal of talkabout the Santa Clans doings and the principal actor in them, and noend of speculations as to his inducements and purposes to be served intaking so much trouble. For Shampuashuh people were shrewd, and did notbelieve, any more than King Lear, that anything could come of nothing.That he was not moved by general benevolence, poured out upon theschool of the white church, was generally agreed. "What's we to him?"asked pertinently one of the old ladies; and vain efforts were made toascertain Mr. Dillwyn's denomination. "For all I kin make out, hehain't got none," was the declaration of another matron. "I don'tb'lieve he's no better than he should be." Which was ungrateful, andhardly justified Miss Charity's prognostications of enduring fame; bywhich, of course, she meant good fame. Few had seen Mr. Dillwynundisguised, so that they could give a report of him; but Mrs. Marxassured them he was "a real personable man; nice and plain, and takin'no airs. She liked him first-rate."

"Who's he after? Not one o' your gals?"

"Mercy, no! He, indeed! He's one of the high-flyers; he won't come toShampuashuh to look for a wife. 'Seems to me he's made o' money; andhe's been everywhere; he's fished for crocodiles in the Nile, and eatenhis luncheon at the top of the Pyramids of Egypt, and sailed to theNorth Pole to be sure of cool lemonade in summer. He won't marry inShampuashuh."

"What brings him here, then?"

"The spirit of restlessness, I should say. Those people that have beeneverywhere, you may notice, can't stay nowhere. I always knew there wasfools in the world, but I didn't know there was so many of 'em asthere be. He ain't no fool neither, some ways; and that makes him abigger fool in the end; only I don't know why the fools should have allthe money."

And so, after a little, the talk about this theme died out, and thingssettled down, not without some of the reaction Mr. Dillwyn hadpredicted; but they settled down, and all was as before in Shampuashuh.Mr. Dillwyn did not come again to make a visit, or Mrs. Marx's arousedvigilance would have found some ground for suspicion. There did comenumerous presents of game and fruit from him, but they were sent toMrs. Barclay, and could not be objected against, although they came insuch quantities that the whole household had to combine to dispose ofthem. What would Philip do next? – Mrs. Barclay queried. As he had said,he could not go on with repeated visits to the house. Madge and Loiswould not hear of being tempted to New York, paint the picture asbright as she would. Things were not ripe for any decided step on Mr.Dillwyn's part, and how should they become so? Mrs. Barclay could notsee the way. She did for Philip what she could by writing to him, whether for his good or his harm she could not decide. She feared thelatter. She told him, however, of the sweet, quiet life she wasleading; of the reading she was doing with the two girls, and the wholefamily; of the progress Lois and Madge were making in singing anddrawing and in various branches of study; of the walks in the freshsea-breezes, and the cosy evenings with wood fires and the lamp; andshe told him how they enjoyed his game, and what a comfort the orangeswere to Mrs. Armadale.

This lasted through January, and then there came a change. Mrs.Armadale was ill. There was no more question of visits, or of studies; and all sorts of enjoyments and occupations gave place to the oneabsorbing interest of watching and waiting upon the sick one. And then, that ceased too. Mrs. Armadale had caught cold, she had not strength tothrow off disease; it took violent form, and in a few days ran itscourse. Very suddenly the little family found itself without its head.

There was nothing to grieve for, but their own loss. The long, wearyearth-journey was done, and the traveller had taken up her abode wherethere is

"The rest begun,

That Christ hath for his people won."

She had gone triumphantly. "Through God we shall do valiantly" – beingher last – uttered words. Her children took them as a legacy, and feltrich. But they looked at her empty chair, and counted themselves poorerthan ever before. Mrs. Barclay saw that the mourning was deep. Yet, with the reserved strength of New England natures, it made no noise, and scarce any show.

Mrs. Barclay lived much alone those first days. She would gladly havetalked to somebody; she wanted to know about the affairs of the littlefamily, but saw no one to talk to. Until, two or three days after thefuneral, coming home one afternoon from a walk in the cold, she foundher fire had died out; and she went into the next room to warm herself.There she saw none of the usual inmates. Mrs. Armadale's chair stood onone side the fire, unoccupied, and on the other side stood uncle TimHotchkiss.

"How do you do, Mr. Hotchkiss? May I come and warm myself? I have beenout, and I am half-frozen."

"I guess you're welcome to most anything in this house, ma'am, – andfire we wouldn't grudge to anybody. Sit down, ma'am;" and he set achair for her. "It's pretty tight weather."

"We had nothing like this last winter," said Mrs. Barclay, shivering.

"We expect to hev one or two snaps in the course of the winter," saidMr. Hotchkiss. "Shampuashuh ain't what you call a cold place; but weexpect to see them two snaps. It comes seasonable this time. I'drayther hev it now than in March. My sister – that's gone, – she couldalways tell you how the weather was goin' to be. I've never seen no onelike her for that."

"Nor for some other things," said Mrs. Barclay. "It is a sad change tofeel her place empty."

"Ay," said uncle Tim, with a glance at the unused chair, – "it's thedifference between full and empty. 'I went out full, and the Lord hasbrought me back empty', Ruth's mother-in-law said."

"Who is Ruth?" Mrs. Barclay asked, a little bewildered, and willing tochange the subject; for she noticed a suppressed quiver in the hardfeatures. "Do I know her?"

"I mean Ruth the Moabitess. Of course you know her. She was a poorheathen thing, but she got all right at last. It was her mother-in-lawthat was bitter. Well – troubles hadn't ought to make us bitter. I guessthere's allays somethin' wrong when they do."

"Hard to help it, sometimes," said Mrs. Barclay.

"She wouldn't ha' let you say that," said the old man, indicatingsufficiently by his accent of whom he was speaking. "There warn't nobitterness in her; and she had seen trouble enough! She's out o' itnow."

"What will the girls do? Stay on and keep the house here just as theyhave done?"

"Well, I don' know," said Mr. Hotchkiss, evidently glad to welcome abusiness question, and now taking a chair himself. "Mrs. Marx and me,we've ben arguin' that question out, and it ain't decided. There's onebig house here, and there's another where Mrs. Marx lives; and there'sone little family, and here's another little family. It's expensive toscatter over so much ground. They had ought to come to Mrs. Marx, orshe had ought to move in here, and then the other house could berented. That's how the thing looks to me. It's expensive for fivepeople to take two big houses to live in. I know, the girls have gotyou now; but they might not keep you allays; and we must look at thingsas they be."

"I must leave them in the spring," said Mrs. Barclay hastily.

"In the spring, must ye!"

"Must," she repeated. "I would like to stay here the rest of my life; but circumstances are imperative. I must go in the spring."

"Then I think that settles it," said Mr. Hotchkiss. "I'm glad to knowit. That is! of course I'm sorry ye're goin'; the girls be very fond ofyou."

"And I of them," said Mrs. Barclay; "but I must go."

After that, she waited for the chance of a talk with Lois. She waitednot long. The household had hardly settled down into regular ways againafter the disturbance of sickness and death, when Lois came one eveningat twilight into Mrs. Barclay's room. She sat down, at first wassilent, and then burst into tears. Mrs. Barclay let her alone, knowingthat for her just now the tears were good. And the woman who had seenso much heavier life-storms, looked on almost with a feeling of envy atthe weeping which gave so simple and frank expression to grief. Untilthis feeling was overcome by another, and she begged Lois to weep nomore.

"I do not mean it – I did not mean it," said Lois, drying her eyes. "Itis ungrateful of me; for we have so much to be thankful for. I am soglad for grandmother!" – Yet somehow the tears went on falling.

"Glad?" – repeated Mrs. Barclay doubtfully. "You mean, because she isout of her suffering."

"She did not suffer much. It is not that. I am so glad to think she hasgot home!"

"I suppose," said Mrs. Barclay in a constrained voice, "to such aperson as your grandmother, death has no fear. Yet life seems to memore desirable."

"She has entered into life!" said Lois. "She is where she wanted to be, and with what she loved best. And I am very, very glad! even though Ido cry."

"How can you speak with such certain'ty, Lois? I know, in such a caseas that of your grandmother, there could be no fear; and yet I do notsee how you can speak as if you knew where she is, and with whom."

"Only because the Bible tells us," said Lois, smiling even through weteyes. "Not the place; it does not tell us the place; but with Christ.That they are; and that is all we want to know.

'Beyond the sighing and the weeping.'

– It makes me gladder than ever I can tell you, to think of it."

"Then what are those tears for, my dear?"

"It's the turning over a leaf," said Lois sadly, "and that is alwayssorrowful. And I have lost – uncle Tim says," she broke off suddenly,"he says, – can it be? – he says you say you must go from us in thespring?"

"That is turning over another leaf," said Mrs. Barclay.

"But is it true?"

"Absolutely true. Circumstances make it imperative. It is not my wish.

I would like to stay here with you all my life."

"I wish you could. I half hoped you would," said Lois wistfully.

"But I cannot, my dear. I cannot."

"Then that is another thing over," said Lois. "What a good time it hasbeen, this year and a half you have been with us! how much worth toMadge and me! But won't you come back again?"

"I fear not. You will not miss me so much; you will all keep housetogether, Mr. Hotchkiss tells me."

"I shall not be here," said Lois.

"Where will you be?" Mrs. Barclay started.

"I don't know; but it will be best for me to do something to helpalong. I think I shall take a school somewhere. I think I can get one."

"A school, my dear? Why should you do such a thing?"

"To help along," said Lois. "You know, we have not much to live on hereat home. I should make one less here, and I should be earning a littlebesides."

"Very little, Lois!"

"Very little will do."

"But you do a great deal now towards the family support. What willbecome of your garden?"

"Uncle Tim can take care of that. Besides, Mrs. Barclay, even if Icould stay at home, I think I ought not. I ought to be doingsomething – be of some use in the world. I am not needed here, now deargrandmother is gone; and there must be some other place where I amneeded."

"My dear, somebody will want you to keep house for him, some of thesedays."

Lois shook her head. "I do not think of it," she said. "I do not thinkit is very likely; that is, anybody I should want. But if it weretrue," she added, looking up and smiling, "that has nothing to do withpresent duty."

"My dear, I cannot bear to think of your going into such drudgery!"

"Drudgery?" said Lois. "I do not know, – perhaps I should not find itso. But I may as well do it as somebody else."

"You are fit for something better."

"There is nothing better, and there is nothing happier," said Lois, rising, "than to do what God gives us to do. I should not be unhappy,Mrs. Barclay. It wouldn't be just like these days we have passedtogether, I suppose; – these days have been a garden of flowers."

And what have they all amounted to? thought Mrs. Barclay when she wasleft alone. Have I done any good – or only harm – by acceding to that madproposition of Philip's? Some good, surely; these two girls have grownand changed, mentally, at a great rate of progress; they are educated, cultivated, informed, refined, to a degree that I would never havethought a year and a half could do. Even so! have I done them good?They are lifted quite out of the level of their surroundings; and to belifted so, means sometimes a barren living alone. Yet I will not thinkthat; it is better to rise in the scale of being, if ever one can, whatever comes of it; what one is in oneself is of more importance thanone's relations to the world around. But Philip? – I have helped himnourish this fancy – and it is not a fancy now – it is the man's wholelife. Heigh ho! I begin to think he was right, and that it is verydifficult to know what is doing good and what isn't. I must write toPhilip —

So she did, at once. She told him of the contemplated changes in thefamily arrangements; of Lois's plan for teaching a district school; anddeclared that she herself must now leave Shampuashuh. She had done whatshe came for, whether for good or for ill. It was done; and she couldno longer continue living there on Mr. Dillwyn's bounty. Now it wouldbe mere bounty, if she stayed where she was; until now she might sayshe had been doing his work. His work was done now, her part of it; therest he must finish for himself. Mrs. Barclay would leave Shampuashuhin April.

This letter would bring matters to a point, she thought, if anythingcould; she much expected to see Mr. Dillwyn himself appear again beforeMarch was over. He did not come, however; he wrote a short answer toMrs. Barclay, saying that he was sorry for her resolve, and wouldcombat it if he could; but felt that he had not the power. She mustsatisfy her fastidious notions of independence, and he could only thankher to the last day of his life for what she had already done for him; service which thanks could never repay. He sent this letter, but saidnothing of coming; and he did not come.

Later, Mrs. Barclay wrote again. The household changes were just aboutto be made; she herself had but a week or two more in Shampuashuh; andLois, against all expectation, had found opportunity immediately to tryher vocation for teaching. The lady placed over a school in a remotelittle village had suddenly died; and the trustees of the school hadconsidered favourably Lois's application. She was going in a day or twoto undertake the charge of a score or two of boys and girls, of allages, in a wild and rough part of the country; where even theaccommodations for her own personal comfort, Mrs. Barclay feared, wouldbe of the plainest.

To this letter also she received an answer, though after a littleinterval. Mr. Dillwyn wrote, he regretted Lois's determination; regretted that she thought it necessary; but appreciated thestraightforward, unflinching sense of duty which never consulted withease or selfishness. He himself was going, he added, on business, for atime, to the north; that is, not Massachusetts, but Canada. He wouldtherefore not see Mrs. Barclay until after a considerable interval.

Mrs. Barclay did not know what to make of this letter. Had Philip givenup his fancy? It was not like him. Men are fickle, it is true; butfickle in his friendships she had never known Mr. Dillwyn to be. Yetthis letter said nothing of love, or hope, or fear; it was cool, friendly, business-like. Mrs. Barclay nevertheless did not know how tobelieve in the business. He have business! What business? She hadalways known him as an easy, graceful, pleasure-taker; finding hispleasure in no evil ways, indeed; kept from that by early associations,or by his own refined tastes and sense of honour; but never living toanything but pleasure. His property was ample and unencumbered; eventhe care of that was not difficult, and did not require much of histime. And now, just when he ought to put in his claim for Lois, if hewas ever going to make it; just when she was set loose from her oldties and marking out a new and hard way of life for herself, he oughtto come; and he was going on business to Canada! Mrs. Barclay wasexcessively disgusted and disappointed. She had not, indeed, all alongseen how Philip's wooing could issue successfully, if it ever came tothe point of wooing; the elements were too discordant, and principlestoo obstinate; and yet she had worked on in hope, vague and doubtful, but still hope, thinking highly herself of Mr. Dillwyn's pretensionsand powers of persuasion, and knowing that in human nature at large allprinciple and all discordance are apt to come to a signal defeat whenLove takes the field. But now there seemed to be no question of wooing;Love was not on hand, where his power was wanted; the friends were allscattered one from another – Lois going to the drudgery of teachingrough boys and girls, she herself to the seclusion of some quietseaside retreat, and Mr. Dillwyn – to hunt bears? – in Canada.

CHAPTER XXXIX

LUXURY

So they were all scattered. But the moving and communicating wires ofhuman society seem as often as any way to run underground; quite out ofsight, at least; then specially strong, when to an outsider they appearto be broken and parted for ever.

Into the history of the summer it is impossible to go minutely. WhatMr. Dillwyn did in Canada, and how Lois fought with ignorance andrudeness and prejudice in her new situation, Mrs. Barclay learned butvery imperfectly from the letters she received; so imperfectly, thatshe felt she knew nothing. Mr. Dillwyn never mentioned Miss Lothrop.Could it be that he had prematurely brought things to a decision, andso got them decided wrong? But in that case Mrs. Barclay felt sure somesign would have escaped Lois; and she gave none.

The summer passed, and two-thirds of the autumn.

One evening in the end of October, Mrs. Wishart was sitting alone inher back drawing-room. She was suffering from a cold, and coddlingherself over the fire. Her major-domo brought her Mr. Dillwyn's nameand request for admission, which was joyfully granted. Mrs. Wishart wasdenied to ordinary visitors; and Philip's arrival was like abenediction.

"Where have you been all summer?" she asked him, when they had talkedawhile of some things nearer home.

"In the backwoods of Canada."

"The backwoods of Canada!"

"I assure you it is a very enjoyable region."

"What could you find to do there?"

"More than enough. I spent my time between hunting – fishing – andstudying."

"Studying what, pray? Not backwoods farming, I suppose?"

"Well, no, not exactly. Backwoods farming is not precisely in my line."

"What is in your line that you could study there?"

"It is not a bad place to study anything; – if you except, perhaps, artand antiquity."

"I did not know you studied anything but art."

"It is hardly a sufficient object to fill a man's life worthily; do youthink so?"

"What would fill it worthily?" the lady asked, with a kind of drearyabstractedness. And if Philip had surprised her a moment before, he wassurprised in his turn. As he did not answer immediately, Mrs. Wishartwent on.

"A man's life, or a woman's life? What would fill it worthily? Do youknow? Sometimes it seems to me that we are all living for nothing."

"I am ready to confess that has been the case with me, – to my shame beit said."

"I mean, that there is nothing really worth living for."

"That cannot be true, however."

"Well, I suppose I say so at the times when I am unable to enjoyanything in my life. And yet, if you stop to think, what does anybody's life amount to? Nobody's missed, after he is gone; or onlyfor a minute; and for himself – There is not a year of my life that Ican remember, that I would be willing to live over again."

"Apparently, then, to enjoy is not the chief end of existence. I mean,of this existence."

"What do we know of any other? And if we do not enjoy ourselves, praywhat in the world should we live for?"

"I have seen people that I thought enjoyed themselves," Philip saidslowly.

"Have you? Who were they? I do not know them."

"You know some of them. Do you recollect a friend of mine, for whom younegotiated lodgings at a far-off country village?"

"Yes, I remember. They took her, didn't they?"

"They took her. And I had the pleasure once or twice of visiting herthere."

"Did she like it?"

"Very much. She could not help liking it. And I thought those peopleseemed to enjoy life. Not relatively, but positively."

"The Lothrops!" cried Mrs. Wishart. "I can not conceive it. Why, theyare very poor."

"That made no hindrance, in their case."

"Poor people, I am afraid they have not been enjoying themselves thisyear."

"I heard of Mrs. Armadale's death."

"Yes. O, she was old; she could not be expected to live long. But theyare all broken up."

"How am I to understand that?"

"Well, you know they have very little to live upon. I suppose it wasfor that reason Lois went off to a distance from home to teach adistrict school. You know, – or do you know? – what country schoolsare, in some places; this was one of the places. Pretty rough; and hardliving. And then a railroad was opened in the neighbourhood – the placebecame sickly – a fever broke out among Lois's scholars and the familiesthey came from; and Lois spent her vacation in nursing. Then got sickherself with the fever, and is only just now getting well."

"I heard something of this before from Mrs. Barclay."

"Then Madge went to take care of Lois, and they were both there. Thatis weeks and weeks ago, – months, I should think."

"But the sick one is well again?"

"She is better. But one does not get up from those fevers so soon.One's strength is gone. I have sent for them to come and make me avisit and recruit."

"They are coming, I hope?"

"I expect them here to-morrow."

Mr. Dillwyn had nearly been betrayed into an exclamation. He rememberedhimself in time, and replied with proper self-possession that he wasvery glad to hear it.

"Yes, I told them to come here and rest. They must want it, poor girls, both of them."

"Then they are coming to-morrow?"

"Yes."

"By what train?"

"I believe, it is the New Haven train that gets in about five o'clock.

Or six. I do not know exactly."

"I know. Now, Mrs. Wishart, you are not well yourself, and must not goout. I will meet the train and bring them safe to you."

"You? O, that's delightful. I have been puzzling my brain to know how Ishould manage; for I am not fit to go out yet, and servants are sounsatisfactory. Will you really? That's good of you!"

"Not at all. It is the least I can do. The family received me mostkindly on more than one occasion; and I would gladly do them a greaterservice than this."

At two o'clock next day the waiting-room of the New Haven station held, among others, two very handsome young girls; who kept close together, waiting for their summons to the train. One of them was very pale andthin and feeble-looking, and indeed sat so that she leaned part of herweight upon her sister. Madge was pale too, and looked somewhatanxious. Both pairs of eyes watched languidly the moving, variousgroups of travellers clustered about in the room.

"Madge, it's like a dream!" murmured the one girl to the other.

"What? If you mean this crowd, my dreams have more order in them."

"I mean, being away from Esterbrooke, and off a sick-bed, and moving, and especially going to – where we are going. It's a dream!"