ANOTHER LUNCHEON PARTY.
A journey can be decided upon in a minute, but not so soon entered
upon. Mrs. Caruthers needed a week to make ready; and during that week
her son and heir found opportunity to make several visits at Mrs.
Wishart's. A certain marriage connection between the families gave him
somewhat the familiar right of a cousin; he could go when he pleased;
and Mrs. Wishart liked him, and used no means to keep him away. Tom
Caruthers was a model of manly beauty; gentle and agreeable in his
manners; and of an evidently affectionate and kindly disposition. Why
should not the young people like each other? she thought; and things
were in fair train. Upon this came the departure for Florida. Tom spoke
his regrets unreservedly out; he could not help himself, his mother's
health required her to go to the South for the month of March, and she
must necessarily have his escort. Lois said little. Mrs. Wishart
feared, or hoped, she felt the more. A little absence is no harm, the
lady thought; _may_ be no harm. But now Lois began to speak of
returning to Shampuashuh; and that indeed might make the separation too
long for profit. She thought too that Lois was a little more thoughtful
and a trifle more quiet than she had been before this journey was
talked of.
One day, it was a cold, blustering day in March, Mrs. Wishart and her
guest had gone down into the lower part of the city to do some
particular shopping; Mrs. Wishart having promised Lois that they would
take lunch and rest at a particular fashionable restaurant. Such an
expedition had a great charm for the little country girl, to whom
everything was new, and to whose healthy mental senses the ways and
manners of the business world, with all the accessories thereof, were
as interesting as the gayer regions and the lighter life of fashion.
Mrs. Wishart had occasion to go to a banker's in Wall Street; she had
business at the Post Office; she had something to do which took her to
several furrier's shops; she visited a particular magazine of varieties
in Maiden Lane, where things, she told Lois, were about half the price
they bore up town. She spent near an hour at the Tract House in Nassau
Street. There was no question of taking the carriage into these
regions; an omnibus had brought them to Wall Street, and from there
they went about on their own feet, walking and standing alternately,
till both ladies were well tired. Mrs. Wishart breathed out a sigh of
relief as she took her seat in the omnibus which was to carry them up
town again.
"Tired out, Lois, are you? I am."
"I am not. I have been too much amused."
"It's delightful to take you anywhere! You reverse the old fairy-tale
catastrophe, and a little handful of ashes turns to fruit for you, or
to gold. Well, I will make some silver turn to fruit presently. I want
my lunch, and I know you do. I should like to have you with me always,
Lois. I get some of the good of your fairy fruit and gold when you are
along with me. Tell me, child, do you do that sort of thing at home?"
"What sort?" said Lois, laughing.
"Turning nothings into gold."
"I don't know," said Lois. "I believe I do pick up a good deal of that
sort of gold as I go along. But at home our life has a great deal of
sameness about it, you know. _Here_ everything is wonderful."
"Wonderful!" repeated Mrs. Wishart. "To you it is wonderful. And to me
it is the dullest old story, the whole of it. I feel as dusty now,
mentally, as I am outwardly. But we'll have some luncheon, Lois, and
that will be refreshing, I hope."
Hopes were to be much disappointed. Getting out of the omnibus near the
locality of the desired restaurant, the whole street was found in
confusion. There had been a fire, it seemed, that morning, in a house
adjoining or very near, and loungers and firemen and an engine and hose
took up all the way. No restaurant to be reached there that morning.
Greatly dismayed, Mrs. Wishart put herself and Lois in one of the
street cars to go on up town.
"I am famishing!" she declared. "And now I do not know where to go.
Everybody has had lunch at home by this time, or there are half-a-dozen
houses I could go to."
"Are there no other restaurants but that one?"
"Plenty; but I could not eat in comfort unless I know things are clean.
I know that place, and the others I don't know. Ha, Mr. Dillwyn!"--
This exclamation was called forth by the sight of a gentleman who just
at that moment was entering the car. Apparently he was an old
acquain'tance, for the recognition was eager on both sides. The new
comer took a seat on the other side of Mrs. Wishart.
"Where do you come from," said he, "that I find you here?"
"From the depths of business--Wall Street--and all over; and now the
depths of despair, that we cannot get lunch. I am going home starving."
"What does that mean?"
"Just a _contretemps_. I promised my young friend here I would give her
a good lunch at the best restaurant I knew; and to-day of all days, and
just as we come tired out to get some refreshment, there's a fire and
firemen and all the street in a hubbub. Nothing for it but to go home
fasting."
"No," said he, "there is a better thing. You will do me the honour and
give me the pleasure of lunching with me. I am living at the
'Imperial,'--and here we are!"
He signalled the car to stop, even as he spoke, and rose to help the
ladies out. Mrs. Wishart had no time to think about it, and on the
sudden impulse yielded. They left the car, and a few steps brought them
to the immense beautiful building called the Imperial Hotel. Mr.
Dillwyn took them in as one at home, conducted them to the great
dining-room; proposed to them to go first to a dressing-room, but this
Mrs. Wishart declined. So they took places at a small table, near
enough to one of the great clear windows for Lois to look down into the
Avenue and see all that was going on there. But first the place where
she was occupied her. With a kind of wondering delight her eye went
down the lines of the immense room, reviewed its loftiness, its
adornments, its light and airiness and beauty; its perfection of
luxurious furnishing and outfitting. Few people were in it just at this
hour, and the few were too far off to trouble at all the sense of
privacy. Lois was tired, she was hungry; this sudden escape from din
and motion and dust, to refreshment and stillness and a soft
atmosphere, was like the changes in an Arabian Nights' enchantment. And
the place was splendid enough and dainty enough to fit into one of
those stories too. Lois sat back in her chair, quietly but intensely
enjoying. It never occurred to her that she herself might be a worthy
object of contemplation.
Yet a fairer might have been sought for, all New York through. She was
not vulgarly gazing; she had not the aspect of one strange to the
place; quiet, grave, withdrawn into herself, she wore an air of most
sweet reserve and unconscious dignity. Features more beautiful might be
found, no doubt, and in numbers; it was not the mere lines, nor the
mere colours of her face, which made it so remarkable, but rather the
mental character. The beautiful poise of a spirit at rest within
itself; the simplicity of unconsciousness; the freshness of a mind to
which nothing has grown stale or old, and which sees nothing in its
conventional shell; along with the sweetness that comes of habitual
dwelling in sweetness. Both her companions occasionally looked at her;
Lois did not know it; she did not think herself of sufficient
importance to be looked at.
And then came the luncheon. Such a luncheon! and served with a delicacy
which became it. Chocolate which was a rich froth; rolls which were
puff balls of perfection; salad, and fruit. Anything yet more
substantial Mrs. Wishart declined. Also she declined wine.
"I should not dare, before Lois," she said.
Therewith came their entertainer's eyes round to Lois again.
"Is she allowed to keep your conscience, Mrs. Wishart?"
"Poor child! I don't charge her with that. But you know, Mr. Dillwyn,
in presence of angels one would walk a little carefully!"
"That almost sounds as if the angels would be uncomfortable
companions," said Lois.
"Not quite _sans gêne_"--the gentleman added, Then Lois's eyes met his
full.
"I do not know what that is," she said.
"Only a couple of French words."
"I do not know French," said Lois simply.
He had not seen before what beautiful eyes they were; soft and grave,
and true with the clearness of the blue ether. He thought he would like
another such look into their transparent depths. So he asked,
"But what is it about the wine?"
"O, we are water-drinkers up about my home," Lois answered, looking,
however, at her chocolate cup from which she was refreshing herself.
"That is what the English call us as a nation, I am sure most
inappropriately. Some of us know good wine when we see it; and most of
the rest have an intimate acquain'tance with wine or some thing else
that is _not_ good. Perhaps Miss Lothrop has formed her opinion, and
practice, upon knowledge of this latter kind?"
Lois did not say; she thought her opinions, or practice, could have
very little interest for this fine gentleman.
"Lois is unfashionable enough to form her own opinions," Mrs. Wishart
remarked.
"But not inconsistent enough to build them on nothing, I hope?"
"I could tell you what they are built on," said Lois, brought out by
this challenge; "but I do not know that you would see from that how
well founded they are."
"I should be very grateful for such an indulgence."
"In this particular case we are speaking of, they are built on two
foundation stones--both out of the same quarry," said Lois, her colour
rising a little, while she smiled too. "One is this--'Whatsoever ye
would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them.' And the
other--'I will neither eat meat, nor drink wine, nor _anything_, by
which my brother stumbleth, or is offended, or made weak.'"
Lois did not look up as she spoke, and Mrs. Wishart smiled with
amusement. Their host's face expressed an undoubted astonishment. He
regarded the gentle and yet bold speaker with steady attention for a
minute or two, noting the modesty, and the gentleness, and the
fearlessness with which she spoke. Noting her great beauty too.
"Precious stones!" said he lightly, when she had done speaking. "I do
not know whether they are broad enough for such a superstructure as you
would build on them." And then he turned to Mrs. Wishart again, and
they left the subject and plunged into a variety of other subjects
where Lois scarce could follow them.
What did they not talk of! Mr. Dillwyn, it appeared, had lately
returned from abroad, where Mrs. Wishart had also formerly lived for
some time; and now they went over a multitude of things and people
familiar to both of them, but of which Lois did not even know the
names. She listened, however, eagerly; and gleaned, as an eager
listener generally may, a good deal. Places, until now unheard of, took
a certain form and aspect in Lois's imagination; people were discerned,
also in imagination, as being of different types and wonderfully
different habits and manners of life from any Lois knew at home, or had
even seen in New York. She heard pictures talked of, and wondered what
sort of a world that art world might be, in which Mr. Dillwyn was so
much at home. Lois had never seen any pictures in her life which were
much to her. And the talk about countries sounded strange. She knew
where Germany was on the map, and could give its boundaries no doubt
accurately; but all this gossip about the Rhineland and its vineyards
and the vintages there and in France, sounded fascinatingly novel. And
she knew where Italy was on the map; but Italy's skies, and soft air,
and mementos of past times of history and art, were unknown; and she
listened with ever-quickening attention. The result of the whole at
last was a mortifying sense that she knew nothing. These people, her
friend and this other, lived in a world of mental impressions and
mentally stored-up knowledge, which seemed to make their life
unendingly broader and richer than her own. Especially the gentleman.
Lois observed that it was constantly he who had something new to tell
Mrs. Wishart, and that in all the ground they went over, he was more at
home than she. Indeed, Lois got the impression that Mr. Dillwyn knew
the world and everything in it better than anybody she had ever seen.
Mr. Caruthers was extremely _au fait_ in many things; Lois had the
thought, not the word; but Mr. Dillwyn was an older man and had seen
much more. He was terrifically wise in it all, she thought; and by
degrees she got a kind of awe of him. A little of Mrs. Wishart too. How
much her friend knew, how at home she was in this big world! what a
plain little piece of ignorance was she herself beside her. Well,
thought Lois--every one to his place! My place is Shampuashuh. I
suppose I am fitted for that.
"Miss Lothrop," said their entertainer here, "will you allow me to give
you some grapes?"
"Grapes in March!" said Lois, smiling, as a beautiful white bunch was
laid before her. "People who live in New York can have everything, it
seems, that they want."
"Provided they can pay for it," Mrs. Wishart put in.
"How is it in your part of the world?" said Mr. Dillwyn. "You cannot
have what you want?"
"Depends upon what order you keep your wishes in," said Lois. "You can
have strawberries in June--and grapes in September."
"What order do you keep your wishes in?" was the next question.
"I think it best to have as few as possible."
"But that would reduce life to a mere framework of life,--if one had no
wishes!"
"One can find something else to fill it up," said Lois.
"Pray what would you substitute? For with wishes I connect the
accomplishment of wishes."
"Are they always connected?"
"Not always; but generally, the one are the means to the other."
"I believe I do not find it so."
"Then, pardon me, what would you substitute, Miss Lothrop, to fill up
your life, and not have it a bare existence?"
"There is always work--" said Lois shyly; "and there are the pleasures
that come without being wished for. I mean, without being particularly
sought and expected."
"Does much come that way?" asked their entertainer, with an incredulous
smile of mockery.
"O, a great deal!" cried Lois; and then she checked herself.
"This is a very interesting investigation, Mrs. Wishart," said the
gentleman. "Do you think I may presume upon Miss Lothrop's good nature,
and carry it further?"
"Miss Lothrop's good nature is a commodity I never knew yet to fail."
"Then I will go on, for I am curious to know, with an honest desire to
enlarge my circle of knowledge. Will you tell me, Miss Lothrop, what
are the pleasures in your mind when you speak of their coming unsought?"
Lois tried to draw back. "I do not believe you would understand them,"
she said a little shyly.
"I trust you do my understanding less than justice!"
"No," said Lois, blushing, "for your enjoyments are in another line."
"Please indulge me, and tell me the line of yours."
He is laughing at me, thought Lois. And her next thought was, What
matter! So, after an instant's hesitation, she answered simply.
"To anybody who has travelled over the world, Shampuashuh is a small
place; and to anybody who knows all you have been talking about, what
we know at Shampuashuh would seem very little. But every morning it is
a pleasure to me to wake and see the sun rise; and the fields, and the
river, and the Sound, are a constant delight to me at all times of day,
and in all sorts of weather. A walk or a ride is always a great
pleasure, and different every time. Then I take constant pleasure in my
work."
"Mrs. Wishart," said the gentleman, "this is a revelation to me. Would
it be indiscreet, if I were to ask Miss Lothrop what she can possibly
mean under the use of the term '_work_'?"
I think Mrs. Wishart considered that it _would_ be rather indiscreet,
and wished Lois would be a little reticent about her home affairs.
Lois, however, had no such feeling.
"I mean work," she said. "I can have no objection that anybody should
know what our life is at home. We have a little farm, very small; it
just keeps a few cows and sheep. In the house we are three sisters; and
we have an old grandmother to take care of, and to keep the house, and
manage the farm."
"But surely you cannot do that last?" said the gentleman.
"We do not manage the cows and sheep," said Lois, smiling; "men's hands
do that; but we make the butter, and we spin the wool, and we cultivate
our garden. _That_ we do ourselves entirely; and we have a good garden
too. And that is one of the things," added Lois, smiling, "in which I
take unending pleasure."
"What can you do in a garden?"
"All there is to do, except ploughing. We get a neighbour to do that."
"And the digging?"
"I can dig," said Lois, laughing.
"But do not?"
"Certainly I do."
"And sow seeds, and dress beds?"
"Certainly. And enjoy every moment of it. I do it early, before the sun
gets hot. And then, there is all the rest; gathering the fruit, and
pulling the vegetables, and the care of them when we have got them; and
I take great pleasure in it all. The summer mornings and spring
mornings in the garden are delightful, and all the work of a garden is
delightful, I think."
"You will except the digging?"
"You are laughing at me," said Lois quietly. "No, I do not except the
digging. I like it particularly. Hoeing and raking I do not like half
so well."
"I am not laughing," said Mr. Dillwyn, "or certainly not at you. If at
anybody, it is myself. I am filled with admiration."
"There is no room for that either," said Lois. "We just have it to do,
and we do it; that is all."
"Miss Lothrop, I never have _had_ to do anything in my life, since I
left college."
Lois thought privately her own thoughts, but did not give them
expression; she had talked a great deal more than she meant to do.
Perhaps Mrs. Wishart too thought there had been enough of it, for she
began to make preparations for departure.
"Mrs. Wishart," said Mr. Dillwyn, "I have to thank you for the greatest
pleasure I have enjoyed since I landed."
"Unsought and unwished-for, too, according to Miss Lothrop's theory.
Certainly we have to thank you, Philip, for we were in a distressed
condition when you found us. Come and see me. And," she added _sotto
voce_ as he was leading her out, and Lois had stepped on before them,
"I consider that all the information that has been given you is
strictly in confidence."
"Quite delicious confidence!"
"Yes, but not for all ears," added Mrs. Wishart somewhat anxiously.
"I am glad you think me worthy. I will not abuse the trust."
"I did not say I thought you worthy," said the lady, laughing; "I was
not consulted. Young eyes see the world in the fresh colours of
morning, and think daisies grow everywhere."
They had reached the street. Mr. Dillwyn accompanied the ladies a part
of their way, and then took leave of them.