ATTENTIONS.
It was days before Lois went down-stairs. She seemed indeed to be in no
hurry. Her room was luxuriously comfortable; Madge tended her there,
and Mrs. Wishart visited her; and Lois sat in her great easy-chair, and
rested, and devoured the delicate meals that were brought her; and the
colour began gently to come back to her face, in the imperceptible
fashion in which a white Van Thol tulip takes on its hues of crimson.
She began to read a little; but she did not care to go down-stairs.
Madge told her everything that went on; who came, and what was said by
one and another. Mr. Dillwyn's name was of very frequent occurrence.
"He's a real nice man!" said Madge enthusiastically.
"Madge, Madge, Madge!--you mustn't speak so," said Lois. "You must not
say 'real nice.'"
"I don't, down-stairs," said Madge, laughing. "It was only to you. It
is more expressive, Lois, sometimes, to speak wrong than to speak
right."
"Do not speak so expressively, then."
"But I must, when I am speaking of Mr. Dillwyn. I never saw anybody so
nice. He is teaching me to play chess, Lois, and it is such fun."
"It seems to me he comes here very often."
"He does; he is an old friend of Mrs. Wishart's, and she is as glad to
see him as I am."
"Don't be too glad, Madge. I do not like to hear you speak so."
"Why not?"
"It was one of the reasons why I did not want to accept Mrs. Barclay's
invitation last winter, that I knew he would be visiting her
constantly. I did not expect to see him _here_ much." Lois looked grave.
"What harm in seeing him, Lois? why shouldn't one have the pleasure?
For it is a pleasure; his talk is so bright, and his manner is so very
kind and graceful; and _he_ is so kind. He is going to take me to drive
again."
"You go to drive with Mrs. Wishart. Isn't that enough?"
"It isn't a quarter so pleasant," Madge said, laughing again. "Mr.
Dillwyn talks, something one likes to hear talked. Mrs. Wishart tells
me about old families, and where they used to live, and where they live
now; what do I care about old New York families! And Mr. Dillwyn lets
_me_ talk. I never have anything whatever to say to Mrs. Wishart; she
does it all."
"I would rather have you go driving with her, though."
"Why, Lois? That's ridiculous. I like to go with Mr. Dillwyn."
"Don't like it too well."
"How can I like it too well?"
"So much that you would miss it, when you do not have it any longer."
"Miss it!" said Madge, half angrily. "I might _miss_ it, as I might
miss any pleasant thing; but I could stand that. I'm not a chicken just
out of the egg. I have missed things before now, and it hasn't killed
me."
"Don't think I am foolish, Madge. It isn't a question of how much you
can stand. But the men like--like this one--are so pleasant with their
graceful, smooth ways, that country girls like you and me might easily
be drawn on, without knowing it, further than they want to go."
"He does not want to draw anybody on!" said Madge indignantly.
"That's the very thing. You might think--or I might think--that
pleasant manner means something; and it don't mean anything."
"I don't want it to 'mean anything,' as you say; but what has our being
country girls to do with it?"
"We are not accustomed to that sort of society, and so it makes, I
suppose, more impression. And what might mean something to others,
would not to us. From such men, I mean."
"What do you mean by 'such men'?" asked Madge, who was getting rather
excited.
"Rich--fashionable--belonging to the great world, and having the ways
of it. You know what Mr. Dillwyn is like. It is not what we have in
Shainpuashuh."
"But, Lois!--what are you talking about? I don't care a red cent for
all this, but I want to understand. You said such a manner would mean
nothing to _us_."
"Yes."
"Why not to us, as well as anybody else?"
"Because we are nobodies, Madge."
"What do you mean?" said the other hotly.
"Just that. It is quite true. You are nobody, and I am nobody. You see,
if we were somebody, it would be different."
"If you think--I'll tell you what, Lois! I think you are fit to be the
wife of the best man that lives and breathes."
"I think so myself," Lois returned quietly.
"And I am."
"I think you are, Madge. But that makes no difference. My dear, we are
nobody."
"How?"--impatiently. "Isn't our family as respectable as anybody's?
Haven't we had governors and governors, of Massachusetts and
Connecticut both; and judges and ministers, ever so many, among our
ancestors? And didn't a half-dozen of 'em, or more, come over in the
'Mayflower'?"
"Yes, Madge; all true; and I am as glad of it as you are."
"Then you talk nonsense!"
"No, I don't," said Lois, sighing a little. "I have seen a little more
of the world than you have, you know, dear Madge; not very much, but a
little more than you; and I know what I am talking about. We are
unknown, we are not rich, we have none of what they call 'connections.'
So you see I do not want you to like too much a person who, beyond
civility, and kindness perhaps, would never think of liking you."
"I don't want him to, that's one thing," said Madge. "But if all that
is true, he is meaner than I think him; that's what I've got to say.
And it is a mean state of society where all that can be true."
"I suppose it is human nature," said Lois.
"It's awfully mean human nature!"
"I guess there is not much true nobleness but where the religion of
Christ comes in. If you have got that, Madge, be content and thankful."
"But nobody likes to be unjustly depreciated."
"Isn't that pride?"
"One must have some pride. I can't make religion _everything_, Lois. I
was a woman before I was a Christian."
"If you want to be a happy woman, you will let religion be everything."
"But, Lois!--wouldn't _you_ like to be rich, and have pretty things
about you?"
"Don't ask me," said Lois, smiling. "I am a woman too, and dearly fond
of pretty things. But, Madge, there is something else I love better,"
she added, with a sudden sweet gravity; "and that is, the will of my
God. I would rather have what he chooses to give me. Really and truly;
I would _rather_ have that."
The conversation therewith was at an end. In the evening of that same
day Lois left her seclusion and came down-stairs for the first time.
She was languid enough yet to be obliged to move slowly, and her cheeks
had not got back their full colour, and were thinner than they used to
be; otherwise she looked well, and Mrs. Wishart contemplated her with
great satisfaction. Somewhat to Lois's vexation, or she thought so,
they found Mr. DilIwyn down-stairs also. Lois had the invalid's place
of honour, in a corner of the sofa, with a little table drawn up for
her separate tea; and Madge and Mr. Dillwyn made toast for her at the
fire. The fire gave its warm light, the lamps glittered with a more
brilliant illumination; ruddy hues of tapestry and white gleams from
silver and glass filled the room, with lights and shadows everywhere,
that contented the eye and the imagination too, with suggestions of
luxury and plenty and sheltered comfort. Lois felt the shelter and the
comfort and the pleasure, with that enhanced intensity which belongs to
one's sensations in a state of convalescence, and in her case was
heightened by previous experiences. Nestled among cushions in her
corner, she watched everything and took the effect of every detail;
tasted every flavour of the situation; but all with a thoughtful,
wordless gravity; she hardly spoke at all.
After tea, Mr. Dillwyn and Madge sat down to the chess-board. And then
Lois's attention fastened upon them. Madge had drawn the little table
that held the chessmen into very close proximity to the sofa, so that
she was just at Lois's hand; but then her whole mind was bent upon the
game, and Lois could study her as she pleased. She did study Madge. She
admired her sister's great beauty; the glossy black hair, the delicate
skin, the excellent features, the pretty figure. Madge was very
handsome, there was no doubt; Mr. Dillwyn would not have far to look,
Lois thought, to find one handsomer than herself was. There was a
frank, fine expression of face, too; and manners thoroughly good. They
lacked some of the quietness of long usage, Lois thought; a quick look
or movement now and then, or her eager eyes, or an abrupt tone of
voice, did in some measure betray the country girl, to whom everything
was novel and interesting; and distinguished her from the half _blasé_,
wholly indifferent air of other people. She will learn that quietness
soon enough, thought Lois; and then, nothing could be left to desire in
Madge. The quietness had always been a characteristic of Lois herself;
partly difference of temperament, partly the sweeter poise of Lois's
mind, had made this difference between the sisters; and now of course
Lois had had more experience of people and the world. But it was not in
her the result of experience, this fair, unshaken balance of mind and
manner which was always a charm in her. However, this by the way; the
girl herself was drawing no comparisons, except so far as to judge her
sister handsomer than herself.
From Madge her eye strayed to Mr. Dillwyn, and studied him. She was
lying back a little in shadow, and could do it safely. He was teaching
Madge the game; and Lois could not but acknowledge and admire in him
the finished manner she missed in her sister. Yes, she could not help
admiring it. The gentle, graceful, easy way, in which he directed her,
gave reproofs and suggestions about the game, and at the same time kept
up a running conversation with Mrs. Wishart; letting not one thing
interfere with another, nor failing for a moment to attend to both
ladies. There was a quiet perfection about the whole home picture; it
remained in Lois's memory for ever. Mrs. Wishart sat on an opposite
sofa knitting; not a long blue stocking, like her dear grandmother, but
a web of wonderful hues, thick and soft, and various as the feathers on
a peacock's neck. It harmonized with all the rest of the room, where
warmth and colour and a certain fulness of detail gave the impression
of long-established easy living. The contrast was very strong with
Lois's own life surroundings; she compared and contrasted, and was not
quite sure how much of this sort of thing might be good for her.
However, for the present here she was, and she enjoyed it. Then she
queried if Mr. Dillwyn were enjoying it. She noticed the hand which he
had run through the locks of his hair, resting his head on the hand. It
was well formed, well kept; in that nothing remarkable; but there was a
certain character of energy in the fingers which did not look like the
hand of a lazy man. How could he spend his life so in doing nothing?
She did not fancy that he cared much about the game, or much about the
talk; what was he there for, so often? Did he, possibly, care about
Madge? Lois's thoughts came back to the conversation.
"Mrs. Wishart, what is to be done with the poor of our city?" Mr.
Dillwyn was saying.
"I don't know! I wish something could be done with them, to keep them
from coming to the house. My cook turns away a dozen a day, some days."
"Those are not the poor I mean."
"They are poor enough."
"They are to a large extent pretenders. I mean the masses of solid
poverty which fill certain parts of the city--and not small parts
either. It is no pretence there."
"I thought there were societies enough to look after them. I know I pay
my share to keep up the societies. What are they doing?"
"Something, I suppose. As if a man should carry a watering-pot to
Vesuvius."
"What in the world has turned _your_ attention that way? I pay my
subscriptions, and then I discharge the matter from my mind. It is the
business of the societies. What has set you to thinking about it?"
"Something I have seen, and something I have heard."
"What have you heard? Are you studying political economy? I did not
know you studied anything but art criticism."
"What do you do with your poor at Shampuashuh, Miss Madge?"
"We do not have any poor. That is, hardly any. There is nobody in the
poorhouse. A few--perhaps half a dozen--people, cannot quite support
themselves. Check to your queen, Mr. Dillwyn."
"What do you do with them?"
"O, take care of them. It's very simple. They understand that whenever
they are in absolute need of it, they can go to the store and get what
they want."
"At whose expense?"
"O, there is a fund there for them. Some of the better-off people take
care of that."
"I should think that would be quite too simple," said Mrs. Wishart,
"and extremely liable to abuse."
"It is never abused, though. Some of the people, those poor ones, will
come as near as possible to starving before they will apply for
anything."
Mrs. Wishart remarked that Shampuashuh was altogether unlike all other
places she ever had heard of.
"Things at Shampuashuh are as they ought to be," Mr. Dillwyn said.
"Now, Mr. Dillwyn," cried Madge, "I will forgive you for taking my
queen, if you will answer a question for me. What is 'art criticism'?"
"Why, Madge, you know!" said Lois from her sofa corner.
"I do not admire ignorance so much as to pretend to it," Madge
rejoined. "What is art criticism, Mr. Dillwyn?"
"What is art?"
"That is what I do not know!" said Madge, laughing. "I understand
criticism. It is the art that bothers me. I only know that it is
something as far from nature as possible."
"O Madge, Madge!" said Lois again; and Mr. Dillwyn laughed a little.
"On the contrary, Miss Madge. Your learning must be unlearnt. Art is
really so near to nature--Check!--that it consists in giving again the
facts and effects of nature in human language."
"Human language? That is, letters and words?"
"Those are the symbols of one language."
"What other is there?"
"Music--painting--architecture---- I am afraid, Miss Madge, that is
check-mate?"
"You said you had seen and heard something, Mr. Dillwyn," Mrs. Wishart
now began. "Do tell us what. I have neither seen nor heard anything in
an age."
Mr. Dillwyn was setting the chessmen again.
"What I saw," he said, "was a silk necktie--or scarf--such as we wear.
What I heard, was the price paid for making it."
"Was there anything remarkable about the scarf?"
"Nothing whatever; except the aforesaid price."
"What _was_ the price paid for making it?"
"Two cents."
"Who told you?"
"A friend of mine, who took me in on purpose that I might see and hear,
what I have reported."
"_Two cents_, did you say? But that's no price!"
"So I thought."
"How many could a woman make in a day, Madge, of those silk scarfs?"
"I don't know--I suppose, a dozen."
"A dozen, I was told, is a fair day's work," Mr. Dillwyn said. "They do
more, but it is by working on into the night."
"Good patience! Twenty-five cents for a hard day's work!" said Mrs.
Wishart. "A dollar and a half a week! Where is bread to come from, to
keep them alive to do it?"
"Better die at once, I should say," echoed Madge.
"Many a one would be glad of that alternative, I doubt not," Mr.
Dillwyn went on. "But there is perhaps an old mother to be taken care
of, or a child or two to feed and bring up."
"Don't talk about it!" said Mrs. Wishart. "It makes me feel blue."
"I must risk that. I want you to think about it. Where is help to come
from? These are the people I was thinking of, when I asked you what was
to be done with our poor."
"I don't know why you ask me. _I_ can do nothing. It is not my
business."
"Will it do to assume that as quite certain?"
"Why yes. What can I do with a set of master tailors?"
"You can cry down the cheap shops; and say why."
"Are the dear shops any better?"
Mr. Dillwyn laughed. "Presumably! But talking--even your talking--will
not do all. I want you to think about it."
"I don't want to think about it," answered the lady. "It's beyond _me_.
Poverty is people's own fault. Industrious and honest people can always
get along."
"If sickness does not set in, or some father, or husband, or son does
not take to bad ways."
"How can I help all that?" asked the lady somewhat pettishly. "I never
knew you were in the benevolent and reformatory line before, Mr.
Dillwyn. What has put all this in your head?"
"Those scarfs, for one thing. Another thing was a visit I had lately
occasion to make. It was near midday. I found a room as bare as a room
could be, of all that we call comfort; in the floor a small pine table
set with three plates, bread, cold herrings, and cheese. That was the
dinner for a little boy, whom I found setting the table, and his father
and mother. The parents work in a factory hard by, from early to late;
they have had sickness in the family this autumn, and are too poor to
afford a fire to eat their dinner by, or to make it warm, so the other
child, a little girl, has been sent away for the winter. It was
frostily cold the day I was there. The boy goes to school in the
afternoon, and comes home in time to light up a fire for his father and
mother to warm themselves by at evening. And the mother has all her
housework to do after she comes home."
"That's better than the other case," said Mrs. Wishart.
"But what could be done, Mr. Dillwyn?" said Lois from her corner. "It
seems as if something was wrong. But how could it be mended?"
"I want Mrs. Wishart to consider of that."
"I can't consider it!" said the lady. "I suppose it is intended that
there should be poor people always, to give us something to do."
"Then let us do it."
"How?"
"I am not certain; but I make a suggestion. Suppose all the ladies of
this city devoted their diamonds to this purpose. Then any number of
dwelling-houses could be put up; separate, but so arranged as to be
warmed by steam from a general centre, at a merely nominal cost for
each one; well ventilated and comfortable; so putting an end to the
enormity of tenement houses. Then a commission might be established to
look after the rights of the poor; to see that they got proper wages,
were not cheated, and that all should have work who wanted it. So much
might be done."
"With no end of money."
"I proposed to take the diamonds of the city, you know."
"And why just the diamonds?" inquired Mrs. Wishart. "Why don't you
speak of some of the indulgences of the men? Take the horses--or the
wines--"
"I am speaking to a lady," said Dillwyn, smiling. "When I have a man to
apply to, I will make my application accordingly."
"Ask him for his tobacco?" said Mrs. Wishart.
"Certainly for his tobacco. There is as much money spent in this city
for tobacco as there is for bread."
Madge exclaimed in incredulous astonishment; and Lois asked if the
diamonds of the city would amount to very much.
"Yes, Miss Lois. American ladies are very fond of diamonds; and it is a
common thing for one of them to have from ten thousand to twenty
thousand or thirty thousand dollars' worth of them as part of the
adornment of her pretty person at one time."
"Twenty thousand dollars' worth of diamonds on at once!" cried Madge.
"I call that wicked!"
"Why?" asked Mr. Dillwyn, smiling.
"There's no wickedness in it," said Mrs. Wishart. "How should it be
wicked? You put on a flower; and another, who can afford it, puts on a
diamond. What's the difference?"
"My flower does not cost anybody anything," said Madge.
"What do my diamonds cost anybody?" returned Mrs. Wishart.
Madge was silent, though not because she had nothing to say; and at
this precise moment the door opened, and visitors were ushered in.