MR. DILLWYN'S PLAN.
Two or three evenings after this, Philip Dillwyn was taking his way
down the Avenue, not up it. He followed it down to nearly its lower
termination, and turned up into Clinton Place, where he presently run
up the steps of a respectable but rather dingy house, rang the bell,
and asked for Mrs. Barclay.
The room where he awaited her was one of those dismal places, a public
parlour in a boarding-house of second or third rank. Respectable, but
forlorn. Nothing was ragged or untidy, but nothing either had the least
look of home comfort or home privacy. As to home elegance, or luxury,
the look of such a room is enough to put it out of one's head that
there can be such things in the world. The ugly ingrain carpet, the
ungraceful frame of the small glass in the pier, the abominable
portraits on the walls, the disagreeable paper with which they were
hung, the hideous lamps on the mantelpiece;--wherever the eye looked,
it came back with uneasy discomfort. Philip's eye came back to the
fire; and _that_ was not pleasant to see; for the fireplace was not
properly cared for, the coals were lifeless, and evidently more
economical than useful. Philip looked very out of place in these
surroundings. No one could for a moment have supposed him to be living
among them. His thoroughly well-dressed figure, the look of easy
refinement in his face, the air of one who is his own master, so
inimitable by one whose circumstances master him; all said plainly that
Mr. Dillwyn was here only on account of some one else. It could be no
home of his.
As little did it seem fitted to be the home of the lady who presently
entered. A tall, elegant, dignified woman; in the simplest of dresses,
indeed, which probably bespoke scantiness of means, but which could not
at all disguise or injure the impression of high breeding and
refinement of manners which her appearance immediately produced. She
was a little older than her visitor, yet not much; a woman in the prime
of life she would have been, had not life gone hard with her; and she
had been very handsome, though the regular features were shadowed with
sadness, and the eyes had wept too many tears not to have suffered loss
of their original brightness. She had the slow, quiet manner of one
whose life is played out; whom the joys and sorrows of the world have
both swept over, like great waves, and receding, have left the world a
barren strand for her; where the tide is never to rise again. She was a
sad-eyed woman, who had accepted her sadness, and could be quietly
cheerful on the surface of it. Always, at least, as far as good
breeding demanded. She welcomed Mr. Dilhvyn with a smile and evident
genuine pleasure.
"How do I find you?" he said, sitting down.
"Quite well. Where have you been all summer? I need not ask how _you_
are."
"Useless things always thrive," he said. "I have been wandering about
among the mountains and lakes in the northern part of Maine."
"That is very wild, isn't it?"
"Therein lies its charm."
"There are not roads and hotels?"
"The roads the lumberers make. And I saw one hotel, and did not want to
see any more."
"How did you find your way?"
"I had a guide--an Indian, who could speak a little English."
"No other company?"
"Rifle and fishing-rod."
"Good work for them there, I suppose?"
"Capital. Moose, and wild-fowl, and fish, all of best quality. I wished
I could have sent you some."
"Thank you for thinking of me. I should have liked the game too."
"Are you comfortable here?" he asked, lowering his voice. Just then the
door opened; a man's head was put in, surveyed the two people in the
room, and after a second's deliberation disappeared again.
"You have not this room to yourself?" inquired Dilhvyn.
"O no. It is public property."
"Then we may be interrupted?"
"At any minute. Do you want to talk to me, '_unter vier Augen_'?"
"I want no more, certainly. Yes, I came to talk to you; and I cannot,
if people keep coming in." A woman's head had now shown itself for a
moment. "I suppose in half an hour there will be a couple of old
gentlemen here playing backgammon. I see a board. Have you not a corner
to yourself?"
"I have a corner," she said, hesitating; "but it is only big enough to
hold me. However, if you will promise to make no remarks, and to 'make
believe,' as the children say, that the place is six times as large as
it is, I will, for once take you to it. I would take no one else."
"The honour will not outweigh the pleasure," said Dillwyn as he rose.
"But why must I put such a force upon my imagination?"
"I do not want you to pity me. Do you mind going up two flights of
stairs?"
"I would not mind going to the top of St. Peter's!"
"The prospect will be hardly like that."
She led the way up two flights of stairs. At the top of them, in the
third story, she opened the door of a little end room, cut off the
hall. Dillwyn waited outside till she had found her box of matches and
lit a lamp; then she let him come in and shut the door. It was a little
bit of a place indeed, about six feet by twelve. A table, covered with
books and papers, hanging shelves with more books, a work-basket, a
trunk converted into a divan by a cushion and chintz cover, and a
rocking-chair, about filled the space. Dillwyn took the divan, and Mrs.
Barclay the chair. Dillwyn looked around him.
"I should never dream of pitying the person who can be contented here,"
he said.
"Why?"
"The mental composition must be so admirable! I suppose you have
another corner, where to sleep?"
"Yes," she said, smiling; "the other little room like this at the other
end of the hall. I preferred this arrangement to having one larger room
where I must sit and sleep both. Old habits are hard to get rid of. Now
tell me more about the forests of Maine. I have always had a curiosity
about that portion of the country."
He did gratify her for a while; told of his travels, and camping out;
and of his hunting and fishing; and of the lovely scenery of the lakes
and hills. He had been to the summit of Mount Kataydin, and he had
explored the waters in 'birches;' and he told of odd specimens of
humanity he had found on his way; but after a while of this talk Philip
came suddenly back to his starting point.
"Mrs. Barclay, you are not comfortable here?"
"As well as I can expect," she said, in her quiet, sad manner. The
sadness was not obtrusive, not on the surface; it was only the
background to everything.
"But it is not comfort. I am not insulting you with pity, mind; but I
am thinking. Would you not like better to be in the country? in some
pleasant place?"
"You do not call this a pleasant place?" she said, with her faint
smile. "Now I do. When I get up here, and shut the door, I am my own
mistress."
"Would you not like the country?"
"It is out of my reach, Philip. I must do something, you know, to keep
even this refuge."
"I think you said you would not be averse to doing something in the
line of giving instruction?"
"If I had the right pupils. But there is no chance of that. There are
too many competitors. The city is overstocked."
"We were talking of the country."
"Yes, but it is still less possible in the country. I could not find
_there_ the sort of teaching I could do. All requisitions of that sort,
people expect to have met in the city; and they come to the city for
it,"
"I do not speak with certain'ty," said Philip, "but I _think_ I know a
place that would suit you. Good air, pleasant country, comfortable
quarters, and moderate charges. And if you went _there_, there is work."
"Where is it?"
"On the Connecticut shore--far down the Sound. Not too far from New
York, though; perfectly accessible."
"Who lives there?"
"It is a New England village, and you know what those are. Broad grassy
streets, and shadowy old elms, and comfortable houses; and the sea not
far off. Quiet, and good air, and people with their intelligence alive.
There is even a library."
"And among these comfortable inhabitants, who would want to be troubled
with me?"
"I think I know. I think I know just the house, where your coming would
be a boon. They are _not_ very well-to-do. I have not asked, but I am
inclined to believe they would be glad to have you."
"Who are they?"
"A household of women. The father and mother are dead; the grandmother
is there yet, and there are three daughters. They are relations of an
old friend of mine, indeed a connection of mine, in the city. So I know
something about them."
"Not the people themselves?"
"Yes, I know the people,--so far as one specimen goes. I fancy they are
people you could get along with."
Mrs. Barclay looked a little scrutinizingly at the young man. His face
revealed nothing, more than a friendly solicitude. But he caught the
look, and broke out suddenly with a change of subject.
"How do you women get along without cigars? What is your substitute?"
"What does the cigar, to you, represent?"
"Soothing and comforting of the nerves--aids to thought--powerful helps
to good humour--something to do--"
"There! now you have it. Philip you are talking nonsense. Your nerves
are as steady and sound as a granite mountain; you can think without
help of any extraneous kind; your good-humour is quite as fair as most
people's; but--you do want something to do! I cannot bear to have you
waste your life in smoke, be it never so fragrant."
"What would you have me do?"
"Anything! so you were hard at work, and _doing_ work."
"There is nothing for me to do."
"That cannot be," said she, shaking her head.
"Propose something."
"You have no need to work for yourself," she said; "so it must be for
other people. Say politics."
"If ever there was anything carried on purely for selfish interests, it
is the business you name."
"The more need for some men to go into it _not_ for self, but for the
country."
"It's a Maelstrom; one would be sure to get drawn in. And it is a dirty
business. You know the proverb about touching pitch."
"It need not be so, Philip."
"It brings one into disgusting contact and associations. My cigar is
better."
"It does nobody any good except the tobacconist. And, Philip, it helps
this habit of careless letting everything go, which you have got into."
"I take care of myself, and of my money," he said.
"Men ought to live for more than to take care of themselves."
"I was just trying to take care of somebody else, and you head me off!
You should encourage a fellow better. One must make a beginning. And I
_would_ like to be of use to somebody, if I could."
"Go on," she said, with her faint smile again. "How do you propose that
I shall meet the increased expenditures of your Connecticut paradise?"
"You would like it?" he said eagerly.
"I cannot tell. But if the people are as pleasant as the place--it
would be a paradise. Still, I cannot afford to live in paradise, I am
afraid."
"You have only heard half my plan. It will cost you nothing. You have
heard only what you are to get--not what you are to give."
"Let me hear. What am I to give?"
"The benefits of your knowledge of the world, and knowledge of
literature, and knowledge of languages, to two persons who need and are
with out them all."
"'Two persons.' What sort of persons?"
"Two of the daughters I spoke of."
Mrs. Barclay was silent a minute, looking at him.
"Whose plan is this?"
"Your humble servant's. As I said, one must make a beginning; and this
is my beginning of an attempt to do good in the world."
"How old are these two persons?"
"One of them, about eighteen, I judge. The other, a year or two older."
"And they wish for such instruction?"
"I believe they would welcome it. But they know nothing about the
plan--and must not know," he added very distinctly, meeting Mrs.
Barclay's eyes with praiseworthy steadiness.
"What makes you think they would be willing to pay for my services,
then? Or, indeed, how could they do it?"
"They are not to do it. They are to know nothing whatever about it.
They are not able to pay for any such advantages. Here comes in the
benevolence of my plan. You are to do it for _me_, and I am to pay the
worth of the work; which I will do to the full. It will much more than
meet the cost of your stay in the house. You can lay up money," he
said, smiling.
"Phil," said Mrs. Barclay, "what is behind this very odd scheme?"
"I do not know that anything--beyond the good done to two young girls,
and the good done to you."
"It is not that," she said. "This plan never originated in your regard
for my welfare solely."
"No. I had an eye to theirs also."
"_Only_ to theirs and mine, Phil?" she asked, bending a keen look upon
him. He laughed, and changed his position, but did not answer.
"Philip, Philip, what is this?"
"You may call it a whim, a fancy, a notion. I do not know that anything
will ever come of it. I could wish there might--but that is a very
cloudy and misty château en Espagne, and I do not much look at it. The
present thing is practical. Will you take the place, and do what you
can for these girls?"
"What ever put this thing in your head?"
"What matter, if it is a good thing?"
"I must know more about it. Who are these people?"
"Connections of Mrs. Wishart. Perfectly respectable."
"_What_ are they, then?"
"Country people. They belong, I suppose, to the farming population of a
New England village. That is very good material."
"Certainly--for some things. How do they live--by keeping boarders?"
"Nothing of the kind! They live, I suppose,--I don't know how they
live; and I do not care. They live as farmers, I suppose. But they are
poor."
"And so, without education?"
"Which I am asking you to supply."
"Phil, you are interested in one of these girls?"
"Didn't I tell you I was interested in both of them?" he said,
laughing. And he rose now, and stood half leaning against the door of
the little room, looking down at Mrs. Barclay; and she reviewed him. He
looked exactly like what he was; a refined and cultivated man of the
world, with a lively intelligence in full play, and every instinct and
habit of a gentleman. Mrs. Barclay looked at him with a very grave face.
"Philip, this is a very crazy scheme!" she said, after a minute or two
of mutual consideration.
"I cannot prove it anything else," he said lightly. "Time must do that."
"I do not think Time will do anything of the kind. What Time does
ordinarily, is to draw the veil off the follies our passions and
fancies have covered up."
"True; and there is another work Time some times does. He sometimes
draws forth a treasure from under the encumbering rubbish that hid it,
and lets it appear for the gold it is."
"Philip, you have never lost your heart to one of these girls?" said
Mrs. Barclay, with an expression of real and grave anxiety.
"Not exactly."
"But your words mean that."
"They are not intended to convey any such meaning. Why should they?"
"Because if they do not mean that, your plan is utterly wild and
extravagant. And if they do--"
"What then?"
"_Then_ it would be far more wild and extravagant. And deplorable."
"See there the inconsistency of you good people!" said Mr. Dillwyn,
still speaking lightly. "A little while ago you were urging me to make
myself useful. I propose a way, in which I want your co-operation,
calculated to be highly beneficial in a variety of ways,--and I hit
upon hindrances directly."
"Philip, it isn't that. I cannot bear to think of your marrying a woman
unworthy of you."
"I still less!" he assured her, with mock gravity.
"And that is what you are thinking of. A woman without education,
without breeding, without knowledge of the world, without _anything_,
that could make her a fit companion for you. Philip, give this up!"
"Not my plan," said he cheerfully. "The rest is all in your
imagination. What you have to do, if you will grant my prayer, is to
make this little country girl the exact opposite of all that. You will
do it, won't you?"
"Where will you be?"
"Not near, to trouble you. Probably in Europe. I think of going with
the Caruthers in the spring."
"What makes you think this girl wants--I mean, desires--education?"
"If she does not, then the fat's in the fire, that's all."
"I did not know you were so romantic, before."
"Romantic! Could anything be more practical? And I think it will be so
good for you, in that sea air."
"I would rather never smell the sea air, if this is going to be for
your damage. Does the girl know you are an admirer of hers?"
"She hardly knows I am in the world! O yes, she has seen me, and I have
talked with her; by which means I come to know that labour spent on her
will not be spent in vain. But of me _she_ knows nothing."
"After talking with you!" said Mrs. Barclay. "What else is she?
Handsome?"
"Perhaps I had better let you judge of that. I could never marry a mere
pretty face, I think. But there is a wonderful charm about this
creature, which I do not yet understand. I have never been able to find
out what is the secret of it."
"A pretty face and a pink cheek!" said Mrs. Barclay, with half a groan.
"You are all alike, you men! Now we women--Philip, is the thing mutual
already? Does she think of you as you think of her?"
"She does not think of me at all," said he, sitting down again, and
facing Mrs. Barclay with an earnest face. "She hardly knows me. Her
attention has been taken up, I fancy, with another suitor."
"Another suitor! You are not going to be Quixote enough to educate a
wife for another man?"
"No," said he, half laughing. "The other man is out of the way, and
makes no more pretension."
"Rejected? And how do you know all this so accurately?"
"Because he told me. Now have you done with objections?"
"Philip, this is a very blind business! You may send me to this place,
and I may do my best, and you may spend your money,--and at the end of
all, she may marry somebody else; or, which is quite on the cards, you
may get another fancy."
"Well," said he, "suppose it. No harm will be done. As I never had any
fancy whatever before, perhaps your second alternative is hardly
likely. The other I must risk, and you must watch against."
Mrs. Barclay shook her head, but the end was, she yielded.