MRS. ARMADALE.
It was a few days later, but March yet, and a keen wind blowing from
the sea. A raw day out of doors; so much the more comfortable seemed
the good fire, and swept-up hearth, and gentle warmth filling the
farmhouse kitchen. The farmhouse was not very large, neither by
consequence was the kitchen; however, it was more than ordinarily
pleasant to look at, because it was not a servants' room; and so was
furnished not only for the work, but also for the habitation of the
family, who made it in winter almost exclusively their abiding-place.
The floor was covered with a thick, gay rag carpet; a settee sofa
looked inviting with its bright chintz hangings; rocking chairs, well
cushioned, were in number and variety; and a basket of work here, and a
pretty lamp there, spoke of ease and quiet occupation. One person only
sat there, in the best easy-chair, at the hearth corner; beside her a
little table with a large book upon it and a roll of knitting. She was
not reading nor working just now; waiting, perhaps, or thinking, with
hands folded in her lap. By the look of the hands they had done many a
job of hard work in their day; by the look of the face and air of the
person, one could see that the hard work was over. The hands were bony,
thin, enlarged at the joints, so as age and long rough usage make them,
but quiet hands now; and the face was steady and calm, with no haste or
restlessness upon it any more, if ever there had been, but a very sweet
and gracious repose. It was a hard-featured countenance; it had never
been handsome; only the beauty of sense and character it had, and the
dignity of a well-lived life. Something more too; some thing of a more
noble calm than even the fairest retrospect can give; a more restful
repose than comes of mere cessation from labour; a deeper content than
has its ground in the actual present. She was a most reverent person,
to look at. Just now she was waiting for something, and listening; for
her ear caught the sound of a door, and then the tread of swift feet
coming down the stair, and then Lois entered upon the scene; evidently
fresh from her journey. She had been to her room to lay by her
wrappings and change her dress; she was in a dark stuff gown now, with
an enveloping white apron. She came up and kissed once more the face
which had watched her entrance.
"You've been gone a good while, Lois!"
"Yes, grandma. Too long, did you think?"
"I don' know, child. That depends on what you stayed for."
"Does it? Grandma, I don't know what I stayed for. I suppose because it
was pleasant."
"Pleasanter than here?"
"Grandma, I haven't been home long enough to know. It all looks and
feels so strange to me as you cannot think!"
"What looks strange?"
"Everything! The house, and the place, and the furniture--I have been
living in such a different world till my eyes have grown unaccustomed.
You can't think how odd it is."
"What sort of a world have you been living in, Lois? Your letters
didn't tell." The old lady spoke with a certain serious doubtfulness,
looking at the girl by her side.
"Didn't they?" Lois returned. "I suppose I did not give you the
impression because I had it not myself. I had got accustomed to that,
you see; and I did not realize how strange it was. I just took it as if
I had always lived in it."
"_What?_"
"O grandma, I can never tell you so that you can understand! It was
like living in the Arabian Nights."
"I don't believe in no Arabian Nights."
"And yet they were there, you see. Houses so beautiful, and filled with
such beautiful things; and you know, grandmother, I like things to be
pretty;--and then, the ease, I suppose. Mrs. Wishart's servants go
about almost like fairies; they are hardly seen or heard, but the work
is done. And you never have to think about it; you go out, and come
home to find dinner ready, and capital dinners too; and you sit reading
or talking, and do not know how time goes till it is tea-time, and then
there comes the tea; and so it is in-doors and out of doors. All that
is quite pleasant."
"And you are sorry to be home again?"
"No, indeed, I am glad. I enjoyed all I have been telling you about,
but I think I enjoyed it quite long enough. It is time for me to be
here. Is the frost well out of the ground yet?"
"Mr. Bince has been ploughin'."
"Has he? I'm glad. Then I'll put in some peas to-morrow. O yes! I am
glad to be home, grandma." Her hand nestled in one of those worn, bony
ones affectionately.
"Could you live just right there, Lois?"
"I tried, grandma."
"Did all that help you?"
"I don't know that it hindered. It might not be good for always; but I
was there only for a little while, and I just took the pleasure of it."
"Seems to me, you was there a pretty long spell to be called 'a little
while.' Ain't it a dangerous kind o' pleasure, Lois? Didn't you never
get tempted?"
"Tempted to what, grandma?"
"I don' know! To want to live easy."
"Would that be wrong?" said Lois, putting her soft cheek alongside the
withered one, so that her wavy hair brushed it caressingly. Perhaps it
was unconscious bribery. But Mrs. Armadale was never bribed.
"It wouldn't be right, Lois, if it made you want to get out o' your
duties."
"I think it didn't, grandma. I'm all ready for them. And your dinner is
the first thing. Madge and Charity--you say they are gone to New Haven?"
"Charity's tooth tormented her so, and Madge wanted to get a bonnet;
and they thought they'd make one job of it. They didn't know you was
comin' to-day, and they thought they'd just hit it to go before you
come. They won't be back early, nother."
"What have they left for your dinner?" said Lois, going to rummage.
"Grandma, here's nothing at all!"
"An egg'll do, dear. They didn't calkilate for you."
"An egg will do for me," said Lois, laughing; "but there's only a crust
of bread."
"Madge calkilated to make tea biscuits after she come home."
"Then I'll do that now."
Lois stripped up the sleeves from her shapely arms, and presently was
very busy at the great kitchen table, with the board before her covered
with white cakes, and the cutter and rolling pin still at work
producing more. Then the fire was made up, and the tin baker set in
front of the blaze, charged with a panful for baking. Lois stripped
down her sleeves and set the table, cut ham and fried it, fried eggs,
and soon sat opposite Mrs. Armadale pouring her out a cup of tea.
"This is cosy!" she exclaimed. "It is nice to have you all alone for
the first, grandma. What's the news?"
"Ain't no news, child. Mrs. Saddler's been to New London for a week."
"And I have come home. Is that all?"
"I don't make no count o' news, child. 'One generation passeth away,
and another generation cometh; but the earth abideth for ever.'"
"But one likes to hear of the things that change, grandma."
"Do 'ee? I like to hear of the things that remain."
"But grandma! the earth itself changes; at least it is as different in
different places as anything can be."
"Some's cold, and some's hot," observed the old lady.
"It is much more than that. The trees are different, and the fruits are
different; and the animals; and the country is different, and the
buildings, and the people's dresses."
"The men and women is the same," said the old lady contentedly.
"But no, not even that, grandma. They are as different as they can be,
and still be men and women."
"'As in water face answereth to face, so the heart of man to man.' Be
the New York folks so queer, then, Lois?"
"O no, not the New York people; though they are different too; quite
different from Shampuashuh--"
"How?"
Lois did not want to say. Her grandmother, she thought, could not
understand her; and if she could understand, she thought she would be
perhaps hurt. She turned the conversation. Then came the clearing away
the remains of dinner; washing the dishes; baking the rest of the
tea-cakes; cleansing and putting away the baker; preparing flour for
next day's bread-making; making her own bed and putting her room in
order; doing work in the dairy which Madge was not at home to take care
of; brushing up the kitchen, putting on the kettle, setting the table
for tea. Altogether Lois had a busy two or three hours, before she
could put on her afternoon dress and come and sit down by her
grandmother.
"It is a change!" she said, smiling. "Such a different life from what I
have been living. You can't think, grandma, what a contrast between
this afternoon and last Friday."
"What was then?"
"I was sitting in Mrs. Wishart's drawing-room, doing nothing but play
work, and a gentleman talking to me."
"Why was he talking to _you?_ Warn't Mrs. Wishart there?"
"No; she was out."
"What did he talk to you for?"
"I was the only one there was," said Lois. But looking back, she could
not avoid the thought that Mr. Dillwyn's long stay and conversation had
not been solely a taking up with what he could get.
"He could have gone away," said Mrs. Armadale, echoing her thought.
"I do not think he wanted to go away. I think he liked to talk to me."
It was very odd too, she thought.
"And did you like to talk to him?"
"Yes. You know I hare not much to talk about; but somehow he seemed to
find out what there was."
"Had _he_ much to talk about?"
"I think there is no end to that," said Lois. "He has been all over the
world and seen everything; and he is a man of sense, to care for the
things that are worth while; and he is educated; and it is very
entertaining to hear him talk."
"Who is he? A young man?"
"Yes, he is young. O, he is an old friend of Mrs. Wishart."
"Did you like him best of all the people you saw?"
"O no, not by any means. I hardly know him, in fact; not so well as
others."
"Who are the others?"
"What others, grandmother?"
"The other people that you like better."
Lois named several ladies, among them Mrs. Wishart, her hostess.
"There's no men's names among them," remarked Mrs. Armadale. "Didn't
you see none, savin' that one?"
"Plenty!" said Lois, smiling.
"An' nary one that you liked?"
"Why, yes, grandmother; several; but of course--"
"What of course?"
"I was going to say, of course I did not have much to do with them; but
there was one I had a good deal to do with."
"Who was he?"
"He was a young Mr. Caruthers. O, I did not have much to do with _him;_
only he was there pretty often, and talked to me. He was pleasant."
"Was he a real godly man?"
"No, grandmother. He is not a Christian at all, I think."
"And yet he pleased you, Lois?"
"I did not say so, grandmother."
"I heerd it in the tone of your voice."
"Did you? Yes, he was pleasant. I liked him pretty well. People that
you would call godly people never came there at all. I suppose there
must be some in New York; but I did not see any."
There was silence a while.
"Eliza Wishart must keep poor company, if there ain't one godly one
among 'em," Mrs. Armadale began again. But Lois was silent.
"What do they talk about?"
"Everything in the world, except that. People and things, and what this
one says and what that one did, and this party and that party. I can't
tell you, grandma. There seemed no end of talk; and yet it did not
amount to much when all was done. I am not speaking of a few, gentlemen
like Mr. Dillwyn, and a few more."
"But he ain't a Christian?"
"No."
"Nor t'other one? the one you liked."
"No."
"I'm glad you've come away, Lois."
"Yes, grandma, and so am I; but why?"
"You know why. A Christian woman maunt have nothin' to do with men that
ain't Christian."
"Nothing to do! Why, we must, grandma. We cannot help seeing people and
talking to them."
"The snares is laid that way," said Mrs. Armadale.
"What are we to do, then, grandmother?"
"Lois Lothrop," said the old lady, suddenly sitting upright, "what's
the Lord's will?"
"About--what?"
"About drawin' in a yoke with one that don't go your way?"
"He says, don't do it."
"Then mind you don't."
"But, grandma, there is no talk of any such thing in this case," said
Lois, half laughing, yet a little annoyed. "Nobody was thinking of such
a thing."
"You don' know what they was thinkin' of."
"I know what they _could not_ have thought of. I am different from
them; I am not of their world; and I am not educated, and I am poor.
There is no danger, grandmother."
"Lois, child, you never know where danger is comin'. It's safe to have
your armour on, and keep out o' temptation. Tell me you'll never let
yourself like a man that ain't Christian!"
"But I might not be able to help liking him."
"Then promise me you'll never marry no sich a one."
"Grandma, I'm not thinking of marrying."
"Lois, what is the Lord's will about it?"
"I know, grandma," Lois answered rather soberly.
"And you know why. 'Thy daughter thou shalt not give unto his son, nor
his daughter shalt thou take unto thy son. For they will turn away thy
son from following me, that they may serve other gods.' I've seen it,
Lois, over and over agin. I've been a woman--or a man--witched away and
dragged down, till if they hadn't lost all the godliness they ever had,
it warn't because they didn't seem so. And the children grew up to be
scapegraces.'"
"Don't it sometimes work the other way?"
"Not often, if a Christian man or woman has married wrong with their
eyes open. Cos it proves, Lois, _that_ proves, that the ungodly one of
the two has the most power; and what he has he's like to keep. Lois, I
mayn't be here allays to look after you; promise me that you'll do the
Lord's will."
"I hope I will, grandma," Lois answered soberly.
"Read them words in Corinthians again."
Lois got the Bible and obeyed, "'Be ye not unequally yoked together
with unbelievers: for what fellowship hath righteousness with
unrighteousness? and what communion hath light with darkness? and what
concord hath Christ with Belial? or what part hath he that believeth
with an infidel?'"
"Lois, ain't them words plain?"
"Very plain, grandma."
"Will ye mind 'em?"
"Yes, grandma; by his grace."
"Ay, ye may want it," said the old lady; "but it's safe to trust the
Lord. An' I'd rather have you suffer heartbreak follerin' the Lord,
than goin' t'other way. Now you may read to me, Lois. We'll have it
before they come home."
"Who has read to you while I have been gone?"
"O, one and another. Madge mostly; but Madge don't care, and so she
don' know how to read."
Mrs. Armadale's sight was not good; and it was the custom for one of
the girls, Lois generally, to read her a verse or two morning and
evening. Generally it was a small portion, talked over if they had
time, and if not, then thought over by the old lady all the remainder
of the day or evening, as the case might be. For she was like the man
of whom it is written--"His delight is in the law of the Lord, and in
his law doth he meditate day and night."
"What shall I read, grandma?"
"You can't go wrong."
The epistle to the Corinthians lay open before Lois, and she read the
words following those which had just been called for.
"'And what agreement hath the temple of God with idols? for ye are the
temple of the living God; as God hath said, I will dwell in them, and
walk in them; and I will be their God, and they shall be my people.
Wherefore come ye out from among them, and be ye separate, saith the
Lord, and touch not the unclean thing; and I will receive you, and will
be a father unto you, and ye shall be my sons and daughters, saith the
Lord Almighty.'"
If anybody had been there to see, the two women made the loveliest
picture at this moment. The one of them old, weather-worn,
plain-featured, sitting with the quiet calm of the end of a work day
and listening; the other young, blooming, fresh, lovely, with a wealth
of youthful charms about her, bending a little over the big book on her
lap; on both faces a reverent sweet gravity which was most gracious.
Lois read and stopped, without looking up.
"I think small of all the world, alongside o' that promise, Lois."
"And so do I, grandmother."
"But, you see, the Lord's sons and daughters has got to be separate
from other folks."
"In some ways."
"Of course they've got to live among folks, but they've got to be
separate for all; and keep their garments."
"I do not believe it is easy in a place like New York," said Lois.
"Seems to me I was getting all mixed up."
"'Tain't easy nowheres, child. Only, where the way is very smooth,
folks slides quicker."
"How can one be 'separate' always, grandma, in the midst of other
people?"
"Take care that you keep nearest to God. Walk with him; and you'll be
pretty sure to be separate from the most o' folks."
There was no more said. Lois presently closed the book and laid it
away, and the two sat in silence awhile. I will not affirm that Lois
did not feel something of a stricture round her, since she had given
that promise so clearly. Truly the promise altered nothing, it only
made things somewhat more tangible; and there floated now and then past
Lois's mental vision an image of a handsome head, crowned with graceful
locks of luxuriant light brown hair, and a face of winning
pleasantness, and eyes that looked eagerly into her eyes. It came up
now before her, this vision, with a certain sense of something lost.
Not that she had ever reckoned that image as a thing won; as belonging,
or ever possibly to belong, to herself; for Lois never had such a
thought for a moment. All the same came now the vision before her with
the commentary,--'You never can have it. That acquain'tance, and that
friendship, and that intercourse, is a thing of the past; and whatever
for another it might have led to, it could lead to nothing for you.' It
was not a defined thought; rather a floating semi-consciousness; and
Lois presently rose up and went from thought to action.