Nobody

"To buy a Persian carpet?"

"Yes. That and other things. Why not?"

"Madge, don't you know this was what grandmother was afraid of, when wewere learning to know Mr. Dillwyn?"

"What?" said Madge defiantly.

"That we would be bewitched – or dazzled – and lose sight of betterthings; I think 'bewitched' is the word; all these beautiful things andthis luxurious comfort – it is bewitching; and so are the fine mannersand the cultivation and the delightful talk. I confess it. I feel it asmuch as you do; but this is just what dear grandmother wanted toprotect us from."

"What did she want to protect us from?" repeated Madge vehemently."Not Persian carpets, nor luxury; we are not likely to be tempted byeither of them in Shampuashuh."

"We might here."

"Be tempted? To what? I shall hardly be likely to go and buy afifteen-hundred-dollar carpet. And it was cheap at that, Lois! I canlive without it, besides. I haven't got so far that I can't stand onthe floor, without any carpet at all, if I must. You needn't think it."

"I do not think it. Only, do not be tempted to fancy, darling, thatthere is any way open to you to get such things; that is all."

"Any way open to me? You mean, I might marry a rich man some day?"

"You might think you might."

"Why shouldn't I?"

"Because, dear Madge, you will not be asked. I told you why. And if youwere, – Madge, you would not, you could not, marry a man that was nota Christian? Grandmother made me promise I never would."

"She did not make me promise it. Lois, don't be ridiculous. I don'twant to marry anybody at present; but I like Persian carpets, andnothing will make me say I don't. And I like silver and gold; andservants, and silk dresses, and ice-cream, and pictures, and bighouses, and big mirrors, and all the rest of it."

"You can find it all in the eighteenth chapter of Revelation, in thedescription of the city Babylon; which means the world."

"I thought Babylon was Rome."

"Read for yourself."

I think Madge did not read it for herself, however; and the days wenton after the accustomed fashion, till the one arrived which was fixedfor Mrs. Chauncey Burrage's second musical party. The three ladies wereall invited. Mrs. Wishart supposed they were all going; but when theday came Lois begged off. She did not feel like going, she said; itwould be far pleasanter to her if she could stay at home quietly; itwould be better for her. Mrs. Wishart demurred; the invitation had beenvery urgent; Mrs. Burrage would be disappointed; and, besides, she wasa little proud herself of her handsome young relations, and wanted theglory of producing them together. However, Lois was earnest in her wishto be left at home; quietly earnest, which is the more difficult todeal with; and, knowing her passionate love for music, Mrs. Wishartdecided that it must be her lingering weakness and languor whichindisposed her for going. Lois was indeed looking well again; but bothher friends had noticed that she was not come back to her old livelyenergy, whether of speaking or doing. Strength comes back so slowly, they said, after one of those fevers. Yet Madge was not satisfied withthis reasoning, and pondered, as she and Mrs. Wishart drove away, whatelse might be the cause of Lois's refusal to go with them.

Meanwhile Lois, having seen them off and heard the house door closeupon them, drew up her chair before the fire and sat down. She was inthe back drawing-room, the windows of which looked out to the river andthe opposite shore; but the shutters were closed and the curtainsdrawn, and only the interior view to be had now. So, or any way, Loisloved the place. It was large, roomy, old-fashioned, with none of thestiffness of new things about it; elegant, with the many tokens of homelife, and of a long habit of culture and comfort. In a big chimney abig wood fire was burning quietly; the room was softly warm; abrilliant lamp behind Lois banished even imaginary gloom, and a faintred shine came from the burning hickory logs. Only this lastillumination fell on Lois's face, and in it Lois's face showed graveand troubled. She was more like a sybil at this moment, looking intoconfused earthly things, than like one of Fra Angelico's angelsrejoicing in the clear light of heaven.

Lois pulled her chair nearer to the fire, and bent down, leaningtowards it; not for warmth, for she was not in the least cold; but forcompany, or for counsel. Who has not taken counsel of a fire? And Loiswas in perplexity of some sort, and trying to think hard and to examineinto herself. She half wished she had gone to the party at Mrs.Burrage's. And why had she not gone? She did not want, she did notthink it was best, to meet Mr. Dillwyn there. And why not, seeing thatshe met him constantly where she was? Well, that she could not help; this would be voluntary; put ting herself in his way, and in hissister's way. Better not, Lois said to herself. But why, better not? Itwould surely be a pleasant gathering at Mrs. Burrage's, a pleasantparty; her parties always were pleasant, Mrs. Wishart said; there wouldbe none but the best sort of people there, good talking and good music;Lois would have liked it. What if Mr. Dillwyn were there too? Must shekeep out of sight of him? Why should she keep out of sight of him? Loisput the question sharply to her conscience. And she found that theanswer, if given truly, would be that she fancied Mr. Dillwyn liked hersister's society better than her own. But what then? The blood began torush over Lois's cheeks and brow and to burn in her pulses. Then, itmust be that she herself liked his society – liked him – yes, a littletoo well; else what harm in his preferring Madge? O, could it be? Loishid her face in her hands for a while, greatly disturbed; she was verymuch afraid the case was even so.

But suppose it so; still, what of it? What did it signify, whom Mr.Dillwyn liked? to Lois he could never be anything. Only a pleasantacquain'tance. He and she were in two different lines of life, linesthat never cross. Her promise was passed to her grandmother; she couldnever marry a man who was not a Christian. Happily Mr. Dillwyn did notwant to marry her; no such question was coming up for decision. Thenwhat was it to her if he liked Madge? Something, because it was notliking that would end in anything; it was impossible a man in hisposition and circumstances should choose for a wife one in hers. If hecould make such a choice, it would be Madge's duty, as much as it wouldbe her own, to refuse him. Would Madge refuse? Lois believed not.Indeed, she thought no one could refuse him, that had not unconquerablereasons of conscience; and Madge, she knew, did not share those whichwere so strong in her own mind. Ought Madge to share them? Was itindeed an absolute command that justified and necessitated the promisemade to her grandmother? or was it a less stringent thing, that mightpossibly be passed over by one not so bound? Lois's mind was in aturmoil of thoughts most unusual, and most foreign to her nature andhabit; thoughts seemed to go round in a whirl. And in the midst of thewhirl there would come before her mind's eye, not now Tom Caruthers'face, but the vision of a pair of pleasant grey eyes at once keen andgentle; or of a close head of hair with a white hand roving amid thethick locks of it; or the outlines of a figure manly and lithe; or somelittle thing done with that ease of manner which was so winning.Sometimes she saw them as in Mrs. Wishart's drawing-room, and sometimesat the table in the dear old house in Shampuashuh, and sometimes underthe drip of an umbrella in a pouring rain, and sometimes in the oldschoolhouse. Manly and kind, and full of intelligence, filled withknowledge, well-bred, and noble; so Lois thought of him. Yet he was nota Christian, therefore no fit partner for Madge or for any one else whowas a Christian. Could that be the absolute fact? Must it be? Was suchthe inevitable and universal conclusion? On what did the logic of itrest? Some words in the Bible bore the brunt of it, she knew; Lois hadread them and talked them over with her grandmother; and now anirresistible desire took possession of her to read them again, and morecritically. She jumped up and ran up-stairs for her Bible.

The fire was down in her own room; the gas was not lit; so she wentback to the bright drawing-room, which to-night she had all to herself.She laid her book on the table and opened it, and then was suddenlychecked by the question – what did all this matter to her, that sheshould be so fiercely eager about it? Dismay struck her anew. What wasany un-Christian man to her, that her heart should beat so atconsidering possible relations between them? No such relations weredesired by any such person; what ailed Lois even to take up thesubject? If Mr. Dillwyn liked either of the sisters particularly, itwas Madge. Probably his liking, if it existed, was no more than TomCaruthers', of which Lois thought with great scorn. Still, she argued, did it not concern her to know with certain'ty what Madge ought to do,in the event of Mr. Dillwyn being not precisely like Tom Caruthers?

CHAPTER XLIII

ABOUT WORK

The sound of the opening door made her start up. She would not haveeven a servant surprise her so; kneeling on the floor with her faceburied in her hands on the table. She started up hurriedly; and thenwas confounded to see entering – Mr. Dillwyn himself. She had heard noring of the door-bell; that must have been when she was up-stairsgetting her Bible. Lois found her feet, in the midst of a terribleconfusion of thoughts; but the very inward confusion admonished her tobe outwardly calm. She was not a woman of the world, and she had nothad very much experience in the difficult art of hiding her feelings,or acting in any way; nevertheless she was a true woman, and woman'sblessed – or cursed? – instinct of self-command came to her aid. She metMr. Dillwyn with a face and manner perfectly composed; she knew shedid; and cried to herself privately some thing very like a seacaptain's order to his helmsman – "Steady! keep her so." Mr. Dillwyn sawthat her face was flushed; but he saw, too, that he had disturbed herand startled her; that must be the reason. She looked so far from beingdelighted, that he could draw no other conclusion. So they shook hands.She thought he did not look delighted either. Of course, she thought,Madge was not there. And Mr. Dillwyn, whatever his mood when he came, recognized immediately the decided reserve and coolness of Lois'smanner, and, to use another nautical phrase, laid his courseaccordingly.

"How do you do, this evening?"

"I think, quite well. There is nobody at home but me, Mr. Dillwyn."

"So I have been told. But it is a great deal pleasanter here, even withonly one-third of the family, than it is in my solitary rooms at thehotel."

At that Lois sat down, and so did he. She could not seem to bid him goaway. However, she said —

"Mrs. Wishart has taken Madge to your sister's. It is the night of hermusic party."

"Why did not Mrs. Wishart take you?"

"I thought – it was better for me to stay at home," Lois answered, witha little hesitation.

"You are not afraid of an evening alone!"

"No, indeed; how could I be? Indeed, I think in New York it is rather aluxury."

Then she wished she had not said that. Would he think she meant tointimate that he was depriving her of a luxury? Lois was annoyed atherself; and hurried on to say something else, which she did not intendshould be so much in the same line as it proved. Indeed, she wasshocked the moment she had spoken.

"Don't you go to your sister's music parties, Mr. Dillwyn?"

"Not universally."

"I thought you were so fond of music" – Lois said apologetically.

"Yes," he said, smiling. "That keeps me away."

"I thought," – said Lois, – "I thought they said the music was so good?"

"I have no doubt they say it. And they mean it honestly."

"And it is not?"

"I find it quite too severe a tax on my powers of simulation anddissimulation. Those are powers you never call in play?" he added, witha most pleasant smile and glance at her.

"Simulation and dissimulation?" repeated Lois, who had by no means gother usual balance of mind or manner yet. "Are those powers which oughtto be called into play?"

"What are you going to do?"

"When?"

"When, for instance, you are in the mood for a grand theme of Handel, and somebody gives you a sentimental bit of Rossini. Or whenMendelssohn is played as if 'songs without words' were songs withoutmeaning. Or when a singer simply displays to you a VOICE, and leavesmusic out of the question altogether."

"That is hard!" said Lois.

"What is one to do then?"

"It is hard," Lois said again. "But I suppose one ought always to betrue."

"If I am true, I must say what I think."

"Yes. If you speak at all."

"What will they think then?"

"Yes," said Lois. "But, after all, that is not the first question."

"What is the first question?"

"I think – to do right."

"But what is right? What will people think of me, if I tell themtheir playing is abominable?"

"You need not say it just with those words," said Lois. "And perhaps,if anybody told them the truth, they would do better. At any rate, whatthey think is not the question, Mr. Dillwyn."

"What is the question?" he asked, smiling.

"What the Lord will think."

"Miss Lois, do you never use dissimulation?"

Lois could not help colouring, a little distressed.

"I try not," she answered. "I dare say I do, sometimes. I dare not say

I do not. It is very difficult for a woman to help it."

"More difficult for a woman than for a man?"

"I do not know. I suppose it is."

"Why should that be?"

"I do not know – unless because she is the weaker, and it may be part ofthe defensive armour of a weak animal."

Mr. Dillwyn laughed a little.

"But that is _dis_simulation," said Lois. "One is not bound always tosay all one thinks; only never to say what one does not think."

"You would always give a true answer to a question?"

"I would try."

"I believe it. And now, Miss Lois, in that trust, I am going to ask youa question. Do you recollect a certain walk in the rain?"

"Certainly!" she said, looking at him with some anxiety.

"And the conversation we held under the umbrella, without simulation ordissimulation?"

"Yes."

"You tacitly – perhaps more than tacitly – blamed me for having spent somuch of my life in idleness; that is uselessly, to all but myself."

"Did I?"

"You did. And I have thought about it since. And I quite agree with youthat to be idle is to be neither wise nor dignified. But here rises adifficulty. I think I would like to be of some use in the world, if Icould. But I do not know what to set about."

Lois waited, with silent attention.

"My question is this: How is a man to find his work in the world?"

Lois's eyes, which had been on his face, went away to the fire. His, which had been on the ground, rose to her face.

"I am in a fog," he said

"I believe every one has his work," Lois remarked.

"I think you said so."

"The Bible says so, at any rate."

"Then how is a man to find his work?" Philip asked, half smiling; atthe same time he drew up his chair a little nearer the fire, and beganto put the same in order. Evidently he was not going away immediately, and had a mind to talk out the subject. But why with her? And was henot going to his sister's? —

"If each one has, not only his work but his peculiar work, it must be avery important matter to make sure he has found it. A wheel in amachine can do its own work, but it cannot take the part of anotherwheel. And your words suppose an exact adjustment of parts and powers."

"The Bible words," said Lois.

"Yes. Well, to my question. I do not know what I ought to do, Miss

Lois. I do not see the work to my hand. How am I ever to be any wiser?"

"I am the last person you should ask. And besides, – I do not thinkanybody knows enough to set another his appointed task."

"How is he to find it, then?"

"He must ask the One who does know."

"Ask? —Pray, you mean?"

"Yes, pray. He must ask to be shown what he ought to do, and how to doit. God knows what place he is meant to fill in the world."

"And if he asks, will he be told?"

"Certainly. That is the promise. 'If any of you lack wisdom, let himask of God, that giveth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not; andit shall be given him.'"

Lois's eyes came over to her questioner at the last words, as it were, setting a seal to them.

"How will he get the answer? Suppose, for instance, I want wisdom; andI kneel down and pray that I may know my work. I rise from myprayer, – there is no voice, nor writing, nor visible sign; how am I thewiser?"

"You think it will not be given him?" Lois said, with a faint smile.

"I do not say that. I dare not. But how?"

"You must not think that, or the asking will be vain. You must believethe Lord's promise."

Lois was warming out of her reserve, and possibly Mr. Dillwyn had apurpose that she should; though I think he was quite earnest with hisquestion. But certainly he was watching her, as well as listening toher.

"Go on," he said. "How will the answer come to me?"

"There is another condition, too. You must be quite willing to hear theanswer."

"Why?"

"Else you will be likely to miss it. You know, Mr. Dillwyn, – you donot know much about housekeeping things, – but I suppose youunderstand, that if you want to weigh anything truly, your balance musthang even."

He smiled.

"Well, then, – Miss Lois?"

"The answer? It comes different ways. But it is sure to come. I thinkone way is this, – You see distinctly one thing you ought to do; it isnot life-work, but it is one thing. That is enough for one step. You dothat; and then you find that that one step has brought you where youcan see a little further, and another step is clear. That will do,"Lois concluded, smiling; "step by step, you will get where you want tobe."

Mr. Dillwyn smiled too, thoughtfully, as it were, to himself.

"Was it so that you went to teach school at that unlucky place? – whatdo you call it?"

"It was not unlucky. Esterbrooke. Yes, I think I went so."

"Was not that a mistake?"

"No, I think not."

"But your work there was broken up?"

"O, but I expect to go back again."

"Back! There? It is too unhealthy."

"It will not be unhealthy, when the railroad is finished."

"I am afraid it will, for some time. And it is too rough a place foryou."

"That is why they want me the more."

"Miss Lois, you are not strong enough."

"I am very strong!" she answered, with a delicious smile.

"But there is such a thing – don't you think so? – as fitness of means toends. You would not take a silver spade to break ground with?"

"I am not at all a silver spade," said Lois. "But if I were; suppose Ihad no other?"

"Then surely the breaking ground must be left to a differentinstrument."

"That won't do," said Lois, shaking her head. "The instrument cannotchoose, you know, where it will be employed. It does not know enoughfor that."

"But it made you ill, that work."

"I am recovering fast."

"You came to a good place for recovering," said Dillwyn, glancing roundthe room, and willing, perhaps, to leave the subject.

"Almost too good," said Lois. "It spoils one. You cannot imagine thecontrast between what I came from – and this. I have been like one indreamland. And there comes over me now and then a strange feeling ofthe inequality of things; almost a sense of wrong; the way I am caredfor is so very different from the very best and utmost that could bedone for the poor people at Esterbrooke. Think of my soups and creamsand ices and oranges and grapes! – and there, very often I could not geta bit of fresh beef to make beef-tea; and what could I do withoutbeef-tea? And what would I not have given for an orange sometimes! I donot mean, for myself. I could get hardly anything the sick peoplereally wanted. And here – it is like rain from the clouds."

"Where does the 'sense of wrong' come in?"

"It seems as if things need not be so unequal."

"And what does your silver spade expect to do there?"

"Don't say that! I have no silver spade. But just so far as I couldhelp to introduce better ways and a knowledge of better things, theinequality would be made up – or on the way to be made up."

"What refining measures are you thinking of? – beside your own presenceand example."

"I was certainly not thinking of that. Why, Mr. Dillwyn, knowledgeitself is refining; and then, so is comfort; and I could help them tomore comfort, in their houses, and in their meals. I began to teachthem singing, which has a great effect; and I carried all the picturesI had with me. Most of all, though, to bring them to a knowledge ofBible truth is the principal thing and the surest way. The rest isreally in order to that."

"Wasn't it very hard work?"

"No," said Lois. "Some things were hard; but not the work."

"Because you like it."

"Yes. O, Mr. Dillwyn, there is nothing pleasanter than to do one'swork, if it is work one is sure God has given."

"That must be because you love him," said Philip gravely. "Yet Iunderstand, that in the universal adjustment of things, the instrumentand its proper work must agree." He was silent a minute, and Lois didnot break the pause. If he would think, let him think, was her meaning.Then he began again.

"There are different ways. What would you think of a man who spent hiswhole life in painting?"

"I should not think that could be anybody's proper life-work."

"I think it was truly his, and he served God in it."

"Who was he?"

"A Catholic monk, in the fifteenth century."

"What did he paint? What was his name?"

"His name was Fra Angelico – by reason of the angelic character whichbelonged to him and to his paintings; otherwise Fra Giovanni; he was amonk in a Dominican cloister. He entered the convent when he was twentyyears old; and from that time, till he was sixty-eight, he served Godand his generation by painting."

Lois looked somewhat incredulous. Mr. Dillwyn here took from one of hispockets a small case, opened it and put it in her hands. It was anexcellent copy of a bit of Fra Angelico's work.

"That," he said as he gave it her, "is the head of one of FraAngelico's angels, from a group in a large picture. I had this copymade for myself some years ago – at a time when I only dimly felt whatnow I am beginning to understand."

Lois scarce heard what he said. From the time she received the picturein her hands she lost all thought of everything else. The unearthlybeauty and purity, the heavenly devotion and joy, seized her heart aswith a spell. The delicate lines of the face, the sweet colouring, thefinished, perfect handling, were most admirable; but it was themarvellous spiritual love and purity which so took possession of Lois.Her eyes filled and her cheeks flushed. It was, so far as paintingcould give it, the truth of heaven; and that goes to the heart of thehuman creature who perceives it. Mr. Dillwyn was watching her, meanwhile, and could look safely, secure that Lois was in no danger offinding it out; and while she, very likely, was thinking of thedistance between that angel face and her own, Philip, on the otherhand, was following the line of his sister's thought, and tracing thefancied likeness. Like one of Fra Angelico's angels! Yes, there was thesame sort of grave purity, of unworldly if not unearthly spiritualbeauty. Truly the rapt joy was not there, nor the unshadowed triumph; but love, – and innocence, – and humility, – and truth; and not a stain ofthe world upon it. Lois said not one word, but looked and looked, tillat last she tendered the picture back to its owner.

"Perhaps you would like to keep it," said he, "and show it to yoursister."

He brought it to have Madge see it! thought Lois. Aloud —

"No – she would enjoy it a great deal more if you showed it toher; – then you could tell her about it."

"I think you could explain it better."

As he made no motion to take back the picture, Lois drew in her handagain and took a further view. How beautiful was the fair, bright, rapt, blissful face of the angel! – as if, indeed, he were looking atheaven's glories.