THE WORTH OF THINGS.
Mr. Dillwyn walked away from Mrs. Wishart's in a discontented mood,
which was not usual with him. He felt almost annoyed with something;
yet did not quite know what, and he did not stop to analyze the
feeling. He walked away, wondering at himself for being so discomposed,
and pondering with sufficient distinctness one or two questions which
stood out from the discomposure.
He was a man who had gone through all the usual routine of education
and experience common to those who belong to the upper class of
society, and can boast of a good name and family. He had lived his
college life; he had travelled; he knew the principal cities of his own
country, and many in other lands, with sufficient familiarity. Speaking
generally, he had seen everything, and knew everybody. He had ceased to
be surprised at anything, or to expect much from the world beyond what
his own efforts and talents could procure him. His connections and
associations had been always with good society and with the old and
established portions of it; but he had come into possession of his
property not so very long ago, and the pleasure of that was not yet
worn off. He was a man who thought himself happy, and certainly
possessed a very high place in the esteem of those who knew him; being
educated, travelled, clever, and of noble character, and withal rich.
It was the oddest thing for Philip to walk as he walked now, musingly,
with measured steps, and eyes bent on the ground. There was a most
strange sense of uneasiness upon him.
The image of Lois busied him constantly. It was such a lovely image.
But he had seen hundreds of handsomer women, he told himself. Had he?
Yes, he thought so. Yet not one, not one of them all, had made as much
impression upon him. It was inconvenient; and why was it inconvenient?
Something about her bewitched him. Yes, he had seen handsomer women;
but more or less they were all of a certain pattern; not alike in
feature, or name, or place, or style, yet nevertheless all belonging to
the general sisterhood of what is called the world. And this girl was
different. How different? She was uneducated, but _that_ could not give
a charm; though Philip thereby reflected that there was a certain charm
in variety, and this made variety. She was unaccustomed to the great
world and its ways; there could be no charm in that, for he liked the
utmost elegance of the best breeding. Here he fetched himself up again.
Lois was not in the least ill-bred. Nothing of the kind. She was
utterly and truly refined, in every look and word and movement showing
that she was so. Yet she had no "manner," as Mrs. Caruthers would have
expressed it. No, she had not. She had no trained and inevitable way of
speaking and looking; her way was her own, and sprang naturally from
the truth of her thought or feeling at the moment. Therefore it could
never be counted upon, and gave one the constant pleasure of surprises.
Yes, Philip concluded that this was one point of interest about her.
She had not learned how to hide herself, and the manner of her
revelations was a continual refreshing variety, inasmuch as what she
had to reveal was only fair and delicate and true. But what made the
girl so provokingly happy? so secure in her contentment? Mr. Dillwyn
thought himself a happy man; content with himself and with life; yet
life had reached something too like a dead level, and himself, he was
conscious, led a purposeless sort of existence. What purpose indeed was
there to live for? But this little girl--Philip recalled the bright,
soft, clear expression of eye with which she had looked at him; the
very sweet curves of happy consciousness about her lips; the confident
bearing with which she had spoken, as one who had found a treasure
which, as she said, satisfied her. But it cannot! said Philip to
himself. It is that she is pure and sweet, and takes happiness like a
baby, sucking in what seems to her the pure milk of existence. It is
true, the remembered expression of Lois's features did not quite agree
with this explanation; pure and sweet, no doubt, but also grave and
high, and sometimes evidencing a keen intellectual perception and
wisdom. Not just like a baby; and he found he could not dismiss the
matter so. What made her, then, so happy? Philip could not remember
ever seeing a grown person who seemed so happy; whose happiness seemed
to rest on such a steady foundation. Can she be in love? thought
Dillwyn; and the idea gave him a most unreasonable thrill of
displeasure. For a moment only; then his reason told him that the look
in Lois's face was not like that. It was not the brilliance of ecstasy;
it was the sunshine of deep and fixed content. Why in the world should
Mr. Dillwyn wish that Lois were not so content? so beyond what he or
anybody could give her? And having got to this point, Mr. Dillwyn
pulled himself up again. What business was it of his, the particular
spring of happiness she had found to drink of? and if it quenched her
thirst, as she said it did, why should he be anything but glad of it?
Why, even if Lois were happy in some new-found human treasure, should
it move him, Philip Dillwyn, with discomfort? Was it possible that he
too could be following in those steps of Tom Caruthers, from which
Tom's mother was at such pains to divert her son? Philip began to see
where he stood. Could it be?--and what if?
He studied the question now with a clear view of its bearings. He had
got out of a fog. Lois was all he had thought of her. Would she do for
a wife for him? Uneducated--inexperienced--not in accord with the
habits of the world--accustomed to very different habits and
society--with no family to give weight to her name and honour to his
choice,--all that Philip pondered; and, on the other side, the
loveliness, the freshness, the intellect, the character, and the
refinement, which were undoubted. He pondered and pondered. A girl who
was nobody, and whom society would look upon as an intruder; a girl who
had had no advantages of education--how she could express herself so
well and so intelligently Philip could not conceive, but the fact was
there; Lois had had no education beyond the most simple training of a
school in the country;--would it do? He turned it all over and over,
and shook his head. It would be too daring an experiment; it would not
be wise; it would not do; he must give it up, all thought of such a
thing; and well that he had come to handle the question so early, as
else he might--he--might have got so entangled that he could not save
himself. Poor Tom! But Philip had no mother to interpose to save _him;_
and his sister was not at hand. He went thinking about all this the
whole way back to his hotel; thinking, and shaking his head at it. No,
this kind of thing was for a boy to do, not for a man who knew the
world. And yet, the image of Lois worried him.
I believe, he said to himself, I had better not see the little witch
again.
Meanwhile he was not going to have much opportunity. Mrs. Wishart came
home a little while after Philip had gone. Lois was stitching by the
last fading light.
"Do stop, my dear! you will put your eyes out. Stop, and let us have
tea. Has anybody been here?"
"Mr. Dillwyn came. He went away hardly a quarter of an hour ago."
"Mr. Dillwyn! Sorry I missed him. But he will come again. I met Tom
Caruthers; he is mourning about this going with his mother to Florida."
"What are they going for?" asked Lois.
"To escape the March winds, he says."
"Who? Mr. Caruthers? He does not look delicate."
Mrs. Wishart laughed. "Not very! And his mother don't either, does she?
But, my dear, people are weak in different spots; it isn't always in
their lungs."
"Are there no March winds in Florida?"
"Not where they are going. It is all sunshine and oranges--and orange
blossoms. But Tom is not delighted with the prospect. What do you think
of that young man?"
"He is a very handsome man."
"Is he not? But I did not mean that. Of course you have eyes. I want to
know whether you have judgment."
"I have not seen much of Mr. Caruthers to judge by."
"No. Take what you have seen and make the most of it."
"I don't think I have judgment," said Lois. "About people, I mean, and
men especially. I am not accustomed to New York people, besides."
"Are they different from Shampuashuh people?"
"O, very."
"How?"
"Miss Caruthers asked me the same thing," said Lois, smiling. "I
suppose at bottom all people are alike; indeed, I know they are. But in
the country I think they show out more."
"Less disguise about them?"
"I think so."
"My dear, are we such a set of masqueraders in your eyes?"
"No," said Lois; "I did not mean that."
"What do you think of Philip Dillwyn? Comare him with young Caruthers."
"I cannot," said Lois. "Mr. Dillwyn strikes me as a man who knows
everything there is in all the world."
"And Tom, you think, does not?"
"Not so much," said, Lois hesitating; "at least he does not impress me
so."
"You are more impressed with Mr. Dillwyn?"
"In what way?" said Lois simply. "I am impressed with the sense of my
own ignorance. I should be oppressed by it, if it was my fault."
"Now you speak like a sensible girl, as you are. Lois, men do not care
about women knowing much."
"Sensible men must."
"They are precisely the ones who do not. It is odd enough, but it is a
fact. But go on; which of these two do you like best?"
"I have seen most of Mr. Caruthers, you know. But, Mrs. Wishart,
sensible men _must_ like sense in other people."
"Yes, my dear; they do; unless when they want to marry the people; and
then their choice very often lights upon a fool. I have seen it over
and over and over again; the clever one of a family is passed by, and a
silly sister is the one chosen."
"Why?"
"A pink and white skin, or a pair of black eyebrows, or perhaps some
soft blue eyes."
"But people cannot live upon a pair of black eyebrows," said Lois.
"They find that out afterwards."
"Mr. Dillwyn talks as if he liked sense," said Lois. "I mean, he talks
about sensible things."
"Do you mean that Tom don't, my dear?"
A slight colour rose on the cheek Mrs. Wishart was looking at; and Lois
said somewhat hastily that she was not comparing.
"I shall try to find out what Tom talks to you about, when he comes
back from Florida. I shall scold him if he indulges in nonsense."
"It will be neither sense nor nonsense. I shall be gone long before
then."
"Gone whither?"
"Home--to Shampuashuh. I have been wanting to speak to you about it,
Mrs. Wishart. I must go in a very few days."
"Nonsense! I shall not let you. I cannot get along without you. They
don't want you at home, Lois."
"The garden does. And the dairy work will be more now in a week or two;
there will be more milk to take care of, and Madge will want help."
"Dairy work! Lois, you must not do dairy work. You will spoil your
hands."
Lois laughed. "Somebody's hands must do it. But Madge takes care of the
dairy. My hands see to the garden."
"Is it necessary?"
"Why, yes, certainly, if we would have butter or vegetables; and you
would not counsel us to do without them. The two make half the living
of the family."
"And you really cannot afford a servant?"
"No, nor want one," said Lois. "There are three of us, and so we get
along nicely."
"Apropos;--My dear, I am sorry that it is so, but must is must. What I
wanted to say to you is, that it is not necessary to tell all this to
other people."
Lois looked up, surprised. "I have told no one but you, Mrs. Wishart. O
yes! I did speak to Mr. Dillwyn about it, I believe."
"Yes. Well, there is no occasion, my dear. It is just as well not."
"Is it _better_ not? What is the harm? Everybody at Shampuashuh knows
it."
"Nobody knows it here; and there is no reason why they should. I meant
to tell you this before."
"I think I have told nobody but Mr. Dillwyn."
"He is safe. I only speak for the future, my dear."
"I don't understand yet," said Lois, half laughing. "Mrs. Wishart, we
are not ashamed of it."
"Certainly not, my dear; you have no occasion."
"Then why _should_ we be ashamed of it?" Lois persisted.
"My dear, there is nothing to be ashamed of. Do not think I mean that.
Only, people here would not understand it."
"How could they _mis_understand it?"
"You do not know the world, Lois. People have peculiar ways of looking
at things; and they put their own interpretation on things; and of
course they often make great blunders. And so it is just as well to
keep your own private affairs to yourself, and not give them the
opportunity of blundering."
Lois was silent a little while.
"You mean," she said then,--"you think, that some of these people I
have been seeing here, would think less of me, if they knew how we do
at home?"
"They might, my dear. People are just stupid enough for that."
"Then it seems to me I ought to let them know," Lois said, half
laughing again. "I do not like to be taken for what I am not; and I do
not want to have anybody's good opinion on false grounds." Her colour
rose a bit at the same time.
"My dear, it is nobody's business. And anybody that once knew you would
judge you for yourself, and not upon any adventitious circumstances.
They cannot, in my opinion, think of you too highly."
"I think it is better they should know at once that I am a poor girl,"
said Lois. However, she reflected privately that it did not matter, as
she was going away so soon. And she remembered also that Mr. Dillwyn
had not seemed to think any the less of her for what she had told him.
Did Tom Caruthers know?
"But, Lois, my dear, about your going-- There is no garden work to be
done yet. It is March."
"It will soon be April. And the ground must be got ready, and potatoes
must go in, and peas."
"Surely somebody else can stick in potatoes and peas."
"They would not know where to put them."
"Does it matter where?"
"To be sure it does!" said Lois, amused. "They must not go where they
were last year."
"Why not?"
"I don't know! It seems that every plant wants a particular sort of
food, and gets it, if it can; and so, the place where it grows is more
or less impoverished, and would have less to give it another year. But
a different sort of plant requiring a different sort of food, would be
all right in that place."
"Food?" said Mrs. Wishart. "Do you mean manure? you can have that put
in."
"No, I do not mean that. I mean something the plant gets from the soil
itself."
"I do not understand! Well, my dear, write them word where the peas
must go."
Lois laughed again.
"I hardly know myself, till I have studied the map," she said. "I mean,
the map of the garden. It is a more difficult matter than you can
guess, to arrange all the new order every spring; all has to be
changed; and upon where the peas go depends, perhaps, where the
cabbages go, and the corn, and the tomatoes, and everything else. It is
a matter for study."
"Can't somebody else do it for you?" Mrs. Wishart asked compassionately.
"There is no one else. We have just our three selves; and all that is
done we do; and the garden is under my management."
"Well, my dear, you are wonderful women; that is all I have to say.
But, Lois, you must pay me a visit by and by in the summer time; I must
have that; I shall go to the Isles of Shoals for a while, and I am
going to have you there."
"If I can be spared from home, dear Mrs. Wishart, it would be
delightful!"