Nobody

"Did he – did the painter – always paint like this?"

"Always, I believe. He improved in his manner as he went on; he paintedbetter and better; but from youth to age he was incessantly doing theone thing, serving God with his pencil. He never painted for money; that is, not for himself; the money went into the church's treasury. Hedid not work for fame; much of his best work is upon the walls of themonks' cells, where few would see it. He would not receive office. Helived upon the Old and New Testaments, and prayer; and the one businessof his life was to show forth to the world what he believed, in suchbeautiful wise that they might be won to believe it too."

"That is exactly the work we have to do, – everybody," said Lois, lifting her eyes with a bright light in them. "I mean, everybody thatis a Christian. That is it; – to show forth Christ, and in such wisethat men may see and believe in him too. That is the word inPhilippians – 'shining as lights in the world, holding forth the word oflife.' I did not know it was possible to do it in painting – but I seeit is. O, thank you for showing me this! – it has done me good."

Her eyes were glistening as she gave him the picture again. Philip putit in security, in silence, and rose up.

"Well," said he, "now I will go and hear somebody play the 'Carnival of

Venice,' as if it were all rattle and no fun."

"Is that the way they play it?"

"It is the way some people play it. Good night."

The door closed after him, and Lois sat down alone before the fire again.

CHAPTER XLIV

CHOOSING A WIFE

She did not open her Bible to go on with the investigation Mr. Dillwynhad broken off. Now that he had just been with her in proper person, aninstinct of scared modesty fled from the question whether or no he werea man whom a Christian woman might marry. What was it to her? Lois saidto herself; what did it concern her, whether such a marriage werepermissible or no? Such a question would never come to her fordecision. To Madge, perhaps? But now the other question did ask forconsideration; – Why she winced at the idea that it might come to Madge?Madge did not share her sister's scruple; Madge had not made thepromise Lois had made; if Mr. Dillwyn asked her, she would accept him,Lois had little doubt. Perhaps he would ask her; and why, why did Loiswish he would not? For she perceived that the idea gave her pain. Whyshould it give her pain? For herself, the thing was a fixed fact; whatever the Bible said – and she knew pretty well what it said – forher, such a marriage was an impossibility. And why should she thinkabout it at all? nobody else was thinking about it. Fra Angelico'sangel came back to her mind; the clear, unshadowed eyes, the pure, gladface, the separateness from all earth's passions or pleasures, thelofty exaltation above them. So ought she to be. And then, while thisthought was warmest, came, shutting it out, the image of Mr. Dillwyn atthe music party; what he was doing there, how he would look and speak, how Madge would enjoy his attentions, and everything; and Lois suddenlyfelt as if she herself were very much alone. Not merely alone now,to-night; she had chosen this, and liked it; (did she like it?) – notnow, but all through her life. It suddenly seemed to Lois as if shewere henceforth to be always alone. Madge would no doubtmarry – somebody; and there was no home, and nobody to make home forLois. She had never thought of it before, but now she seemed to see itall quite clearly. Mrs. Barclay's work had been, to separate her, in acertain way, from her family and her surroundings. They fitted togetherno longer. Lois knew what they did not know; she had tastes which theydid not share, but which now were become part of her being; the societyin which she had moved all her life till two years, or three years, ago, could no longer content her. It was not inanimate nature, hergarden, her spade and her wheelbarrow, that seemed distasteful; Loiscould have gone into that work again with all her heart, and thought itno hardship; it was the mental level at which the people lived; thesocial level, in houses, tables, dress, and amusements, and manner; theaesthetic level of beauty, and grace, and fitness, or at least theperception of them. Lois pondered and revolved this all till she beganto grow rather dreary. Think of the Esterbrooke school, and of beingalone there! Rough, rude, coarse boys and girls; untaught, untamed, ungovernable, except by an uncommon exertion of wisdom and will; longdays of hard labour, nights of common food and sleep, with no delicatearrangements for either, and social refreshment utterly out of thequestion. And Madge away; married, perhaps, and travelling in Europe, and seeing Fra Angelico's paintings. Then the angel's face recurred toLois, and she pulled herself up. The angel's face and the painter'shistory both confronted her. On one hand, the seraphic purity and joyof a creature who knew no will but God's will; on the other hand, thequiet, patient life, which had borne such fruits. Four hundred yearsago, Fra Angelico painted; and ever since his work had been bearingwitness to God's truth and salvation; was even at that minute teachingand admonishing herself. What did it signify just how her own workshould be done, if only it were like work? What matter whether rough orsmooth, alone or in company? Where the service is to be done, there theMaster puts his servant; what the service is, he knows; for theservant, all that he has to take care of is, that step by step hefollow where he is led, and everywhere, and by all means in his power, that he show forth Christ to men. Then something like that angel'ssecurity would be with him all the way, and something like that angel'sjoy be at the end of it. The little picture had helped and comfortedLois amazingly, and she went to bed with a heart humbled and almostcontented.

She went, however, in good time, before Madge could return home; shedid not want to hear the outflow of description and expatiation whichmight be expected. And Madge indeed found her so seemingly sleepy, thatshe was forced to give up talking and come to bed too. But all Lois hadgained was a respite. The next morning, as soon as they were awake,Madge began.

"Lois, we had a grand time last night! You were so stupidly asleep when

I came home, I couldn't tell you. We had a beautiful time! O Lois, Mrs.

Burrage's house is just magnificent!"

"I suppose so."

"The floors are all laid in patterns of different coloured woods – asort of mosaic – "

"Parquetry."

"What? – I call it mosaic, with centre-pieces and borders, – O, elegant!

And they are smooth and polished; and then carpets and rugs of all sorts are laid about; and it's most beautiful. She has got one of those

Persian carpets she was telling about, Lois."

"I dare say."

"And the walls are all great mirrors, or else there is the richest sortof drapery – curtains, or hangings; and the prettiest painted walls. AndO, Lois, the flowers! – "

"Where were they?"

"Everywhere! On tables, and little shelves on the wall – "

"Brackets."

"O, well! – shelves they are, call them what you like; and stands ofplants and pots of plants – the whole place was sweet with the smell, and green with the leaves, and brilliant with the flowers – "

"Seems to have been brilliant generally."

"So it was, just brilliant, with all that, and with the lights, andwith the people."

"Were the people brilliant too?"

"And the playing."

"O, – the playing!"

"Everybody said so. It wasn't like Mrs. Barclay's playing."

"What was it like?"

"It looked like very hard work, to me. My dear, I saw the drops ofsweat standing on one man's forehead; – he had been playing a prettylong piece," Madge added, by way of accounting for things. "I never sawanything like it, in all my life!"

"Like what? – sweat on a man's forehead?"

"Like the playing. Don't be ridiculous."

"It is not I," said Lois, who meanwhile had risenn and was gettingdressed. Madge was doing the same, talking all the while. "So theplaying was something to be seen. What was the singing?"

Madge stood still, comb in hand. "I don't know!" she said gravely. Loiscould not help laughing.

"Well, I don't," Madge went on. "It was so queer, some of it, I did notknow which way to look. Some of it was regular yelling, Lois; and ifpeople are going to yell, I'd rather have it out-of-doors. But oneman – I think he thought he was doing it remarkably well – the goings upand down of his voice – "

"Cadences – "

"Well, the cadences if you choose; they made me think of nothing butthe tones of the lions and other beasts in the menagerie. Don't youknow how they roar up and down? first softly and then loud? I hadeverything in the world to do not to laugh out downright. He wassinging something meant to be very pathetic; and it was absolutelykilling."

"It was not all like that, I suppose?"

"No. There was some I liked. But nothing one-half so good as yoursinging a hymn, Lois. I wish you could have been there to give themone. Only you could not sing a hymn in such a place."

"Why not?"

"Why, because! It would be out of place."

"I would not go anywhere where a hymn would be out of place."

"That's nonsense. But O, how the people were dressed, Lois! Brilliant!

O you may well say so. It took away my breath at first"

"You got it again, I hope?"

"Yes. But O, Lois, it is nice to have plenty of money."

"Well, yes. And it is nice not to have it – if the Lord makes it so."

"Makes what so? You are very unsympathetic this morning, Lois! But ifyou had only been there. O Lois, there were one or two fur rugs – furskins for rugs, – the most beautiful things I ever saw. One was aleopard's skin, with its beautiful spots; the other was white and thickand fluffy – I couldn't find out what it was."

"Bear, maybe."

"Bear! O Lois – those two skins finished me! I kept my head for a while, with all the mosaic floors and rich hangings and flowers anddresses, – but those two skins took away the little sense I had left.They looked so magnificent! so luxurious."

"They are luxurious, no doubt."

"Lois, I don't see why some people should have so much, and others solittle."

"The same sort of question that puzzled David once."

"Why should Mrs. Burrage have all that, and you and I have only yellowpainted floors and rag carpets?"

"I don't want 'all that.'"

"Don't you?"

"No."

"I do."

"Madge, those things do not make people happy."

"It's all very well to say so, Lois. I should like just to try once."

"How do you like Mrs. Burrage?"

Madge hesitated a trifle.

"She is pleasant, – pretty, and clever, and lively; she went flyingabout among the people like a butterfly, stopping a minute here and aminute there, but I guess it was not to get honey but to give it. Shewas a little honeyfied to me, but not much. I don't – think" – (slowly)"she liked to see her brother making much of me."

Lois was silent.

"He was there; I didn't tell you. He came a little late. He said he hadbeen here, and as he didn't find us he came on to his sister's."

"He was here a little while."

"So he said. But he was so good, Lois! He was very good. He talked tome, and told me about things, and took care of me, and gave me supper.I tell you, I thought madam his sister looked a little askance at himonce or twice. I know she tried to get him away."

Lois again made no answer.

"Why should she, Lois?"

"Maybe you were mistaken."

"I don't think I was mistaken. But why should she, Lois?"

"Madge, dear, you know what I told you."

"About what?"

"About that; people's feelings. You and I do not belong to this gay, rich world; we are not rich, and we are not fashionable, and we do notlive as they live, in any way; and they do not want us; why shouldthey?"

"We should not hurt them!" said Madge indignantly.

"Nor be of any use or pleasure to them."

"There isn't a girl among them all to compare with you, as far as looksgo."

"I am afraid that will not help the matter," said Lois, smiling; butthen she added with earnest and almost anxious eagerness,

"Madge, dear, don't think about it! Happiness is not there; and whatGod gives us is best. Best for you and best for me. Don't you wish forriches! – or for anything we haven't got. What we have to do, is to liveso as to show forth Christ and his truth before men."

"Very few do that," said Madge shortly.

"Let us be some of the few."

"I'd like to do it in high places, then," said Madge. "O, you needn'ttalk, Lois! It's a great deal nicer to have a leopard skin under yourfeet than a rag-carpet."

Lois could not help smiling, though something like tears was gathering.

"And I'd rather have Mr. Dillwyn take care of me than uncle Tim

Hotchkiss."

The laughter and the tears came both more unmistakeably. Lois felt alittle hysterical. She finished dressing hurriedly, and heard as littleas possible of Madge's further communications.

It was a few hours later, that same morning, that Philip Dillwynstrolled into his sister's breakfast-room. It was a room at the back ofthe house, the end of a suite; and from it the eye roved throughhalf-drawn portières and between rows of pillars, along a vista ofthe parquetted floors Madge had described to her sister; catching herethe glitter of gold from a picture frame, and there a gleam of whitefrom a marble figure, through the half light which reigned there. Inthe breakfast-room it was bright day; and Mrs. Burrage was finishingher chocolate and playing with bits of dry toast, when her brother camein. Philip had hardly exchanged greetings and taken his seat, when hisattention was claimed by Mrs. Burrage's young son and heir, whoforthwith thrust himself between his uncle's knees, a bat in one hand,a worsted ball in the other.

"Uncle Phil, mamma says her name usen't to be Burrage – it was yourname?"

"That is correct."

"If it was your name once, why isn't it your name now?"

"Because she changed it and became Burrage."

"What made her be Burrage?"

"That is a deep question in mental philosophy, which I am unable toanswer, Chauncey."

"She says, it's because she married papa."

"Does not your mother generally speak truth?"

Young Philip Chauncey seemed to consider this question; and finallywaiving it, went on pulling at a button of his uncle's coat in theenergy of his inquiries.

"Uncle Phil, you haven't got a wife?"

"No."

"Why haven't you?"

"An old cookery book says, 'First catch your hare.'"

"Must you catch your wife?"

"I suppose so."

"How do you catch her?"

But the answer to this most serious inquiry was met by such a burst oflaughter on the part of both the older persons in the room, that Philhad to wait; nothing daunted, however, returned to the charge.

"Uncle Phil, if you had a wife, what would her name be?"

"If ever I have one, Chauncey, her name will be – "

But here the speaker had very nearly, in his abstraction, brought out aname that would, to say the least, have astonished his sister. Hecaught himself up just in time, and laughed.

"If ever I have one, her name will be mine."

"I did not know, last night, but you had chosen the lady to whom youintended to do so much honour," his sister observed coolly, looking athim across her chocolate cup.

"Or who I hoped would do me so much honour. What did you think of mysupposed choice?" he asked with equal coolness.

"What could I think, except that you were like all othermen – distraught for a pretty face."

"One might do worse," observed Philip, in the same tone, while that ofhis sister grew warmer.

"Some men, – but not you, Philip?"

"What distinguishes me from the mass?"

"You are too old to be made a fool of."

"Old enough to be wise, certainly."

"And you are too fastidious to be satisfied with anything short ofperfection; and then you fill too high a position in the world to marrya girl who is nobody."

"So?" – said Philip, using, which it always vexed his sister to have himdo, the half questioning, half admiring, wholly unattackable Germanexpression. "Then the person alluded to seemed to you something shortof perfection?"

"She is handsome," returned his sister; "she has a very handsome face; anybody can see that; but that does not make her your equal."

"Humph! – You suppose I can find that rare bird, my equal, do you?"

"Not there."

"What's the matter with her?"

"She is simply nobody."

"Seems to say a good deal," responded Philip. "I do not know justwhat it says."

"You know as well as I do! And she is unformed; unused to all the waysof the world; a mere novice in society."

"Part of that is soon mended," said Philip easily. "I heard your uncle,or Burrage's uncle, old Colonel Chauncey, last night declaring thatthere is not a girl in the city that has such manners as one of theMiss Lothrops; manners of 'mingled grace and dignity,' he said."

"That was the other one."

"That was the other one."

"She has been in New York before?"

"Yes."

"That was the one that Tom Caruthers was bewitched with?"

"Have you heard that story?" said Mr. Dillwyn dryly.

"Why shouldn't I hear it?"

"No reason, that I know. It is one of the 'ways of the world' youreferred to, to tell everything of everybody, – especially when it isnot true."

"Isn't that story true?"

"It has no inherent improbability. Tom is open to influences, and – " Hestopped.

"I know it is true; for Mrs. Caruthers told me herself."

"Poor Tom!" —

"It was very good for him, that the thing was put an end to. Butyou– you should fly at higher game than Tom Caruthers can strike,Philip."

"Thank you. There was no occasion for your special fear last night. Iam in no danger there. But I know a man, Jessie, – a man I think muchof, too, – who is very much drawn to one of those ladies. He hasconfessed as much to me. What advice shall I give him? He is a man thatcan please himself; he has abundant means, and no ties to encumber him."

"Does he hold as high a position as you?"

"Quite."

"And may pretend to as much?"

"He is not a man of pretensions. But, taking your words as they mean, Ishould say, yes."

"Is it any use to offer him advice?"

"I think he generally hears mine – if he is not too far gone insomething."

"Ah! – Well, Philip, tell him to think what he is doing."

"O, I have put that before him."

"He would make himself a great goose."

"Perhaps I ought to have some arguments wherewith to substantiate thatprophecy."

"He can see the whole for himself. Let him think of the fitness ofthings. Imagine such a girl set to preside over his house – a house likethis, for instance. Imagine her helping him receive his guests; sittingat the head of his table. Fancy it; a girl who has been accustomed tosanded floors, perhaps, and paper window-shades, and who has fed onpumpkins and pork all her life."

Mr. Dillwyn smiled, as his eye roved over what of his sister's house was visible from where he sat, and he remembered the meal-times in

Shampuashuh; he smiled, but his eye had more thought in it than Mrs.

Burrage liked. She was watching him.

"I cannot tell what sort of a house is in question in the presentcase," he said at length. "Perhaps it would not be a house like this."

"It ought to be a house like this."

"Isn't that an open question?"

"No! I am supposing that this man, your friend – Do I know him?"

"Do you not know everybody? But I have no permission to disclose hisname."

"And I do not care for it, if he is going to make a mésalliance; amarriage beneath him. Such marriages turn out miserably. A woman notfit for society drags her husband out of it; a woman who has notrefined tastes makes him gradually coarse; a woman with no connectionskeeps him from rising in life; if she is without education, she letsall the best part of him go to waste. In short, if he marries a nobodyhe becomes nobody too; parts with all his antecedents, and buries allhis advantages. It's social ruin, Philip! it is just ruin."

"If this man only does not prefer the bliss of ruining himself!" – saidher brother, rising and lightly stretching himself. Mrs. Burrage lookedat him keenly and doubtfully.

"There is no greater mistake a man can make, than to marry beneathhim," she went on.

"Yes, I think that too."

"It sinks him below his level; it is a weight round his neck; peopleafterwards, when he is mentioned say, – 'He married such a one, youknow;' and, 'Didn't he marry unfortunately?' – He is like depreciatedcoin. It kills him, Philip, politically."

"And fashionably."

"O, fashionably! of course."

"What's left to a man when he ceases to be fashionable?"

"Well, of course he chooses a new set of associates."

"But if Tom Caruthers had married as you say he wanted to marry, hiswife would have come at once into his circle, and made one of it?"

"Provided she could hold the place."

"Of that I have no doubt."

"It was a great gain to Tom that he missed."

"The world has odd balances to weigh loss and gain!" said Philip.

"Why, Philip, in addition to everything else, these girls arereligious;– not after a reasonable fashion, you know, butpuritanical; prejudiced, and narrow, and stiff."

"How do you know all that?"

"From that one's talk last night. And from Mrs. Wishart."

"Did she say they were puritanical?"

"Yes. O yes! they are stiff about dancing and cards; and I had nearlylaughed last night at the way Miss – what's her name? – opened her eyesat me when I spoke of the theatre."

"She does not know what the theatre is," said Philip.

"She thinks she does."

"She does not know the half."

"Philip," said Mrs. Burrage severely and discontentedly, "you are notagreeing with me."

"Not entirely, sister."

"You are as fond of the theatre, or of the opera, as anybody I know."

"I never saw a decent opera in my life."

"Philip!"

"Nor did you."

"How ridiculous! You have been going to the opera all your life, andthe theatre too, in half a dozen different countries."

"Therefore I claim to know of what I speak. And if I had a wife – " hepaused. His thoughts made two or three leaps; the vision of Lois'ssweet, pure dignity came before him, and words were wanting.

"What if you had a wife?" asked his sister impatiently.

"I would rather she would be anything but a 'fast' woman."

"She needn't be 'fast'; but she needn't be precise either."

There was something in Philip's air or his silence which provoked Mrs.

Burrage. She went on with some heat, and defiantly.

"I have no objection to religion, in a proper way. I always teach

Chauncey to make the responses."

"Make them yourself?"

"Of course."

"Do you mean them?"

"Mean them!" —

"Yes. Do you mean what you say? When you have said, 'Lord, have mercyupon us, miserable sinners' – did you feel guilty? or miserable?"

"Miserable!" —

"Yes. Did you feel miserable?"

"Philip, I have no idea what you are driving at, unless you aredefending these two precise, puritanical young country-women."

"A little of that," he said, smiling, "and a little of something else."

He had risen, as if to go. His sister looked at him, vexed anduncertain. She was proud of her brother, she admired him, as almostpeople did who knew Mr. Dillwyn. Suddenly she changed her tactics; roseup, and coming to him laid both her hands on his shoulders so that shecould raise herself up to kiss him.

"Don't you go and be foolish!" she said. "I will forgive your friend,

Philip, but I will not forgive you!"

CHAPTER XLV

DUTY

The days of December went by. Lois was herself again, in health; andnothing was in the way of Madge's full enjoyment of New York and itspleasures, so she enjoyed them to the full. She went wherever Mrs.Wishart would take her. That did not involve any very outrageousdissipation, for Mrs. Wishart, though fond of society, liked it best inmoderation. Moderate companies and moderate hours suited her. However,Madge had enough to content her new thirst for excitement and variety, especially as Mr. Dillwyn continually came in to fill up gaps in herengagements. He took her to drive, or to see various sights, which forthe country-bred girl were full of enchantment; and he came to thehouse constantly on the empty evenings.