PLANS.
Lois went along the hall in that condition of the nerves in which the
feet seem to walk without stepping on anything. She queried what time
it could be; was the evening half gone? or had they possibly not done
tea yet? Then the parlour door opened.
"Lois!--is that you? Come along; you are just in time; we are at tea.
Hurry, now!"
Lois went to her room, wishing that she could any way escape going to
the table; she felt as if her friend and her sister would read the news
in her face immediately, and hear it in her voice as soon as she spoke.
There was no help for it; she hastened down, and presently perceived to
her wonderment that her friends were absolutely without suspicion. She
kept as quiet as possible, and found, happily, that she was very
hungry. Mrs. Wishart and Madge were busy in talk.
"You remember Mr. Caruthers, Lois?" said the former;--"Tom Caruthers,
who used to be here so often?"
"Certainly."
"Did you hear he had made a great match?"
"I heard he was going to be married. I heard that a great while ago."
"Yes, he has made a very great match. It has been delayed by the death
of her mother; they had to wait. He was married a few months ago, in
Florence. They had a splendid wedding."
"What makes what you call a 'great match'?" Madge asked.
"Money,--and family."
"I understand money," Madge went on; "but what do you mean by 'family,'
Mrs. Wishart?"
"My dear, if you lived in the world, you would know. It means name, and
position, and standing. I suppose at Shampuashuh you are all alike--one
is as good as another."
"Indeed," said Madge, "you are much mistaken, Mrs. Wishart. We think
one is much better than another."
"Do you? Ah well,--then you know what I mean, my dear. I suppose the
world is really very much alike in all places; it is only the names of
things that vary."
"In Shampuashuh," Madge went on, "we mean by a good family, a houseful
of honest and religious people."
"Yes, Madge," said Lois, looking up, "we mean a little more than that.
We mean a family that has been honest and religious, and educated too,
for a long while--for generations. We mean as much as that, when we
speak of a good family."
"That's different," said Mrs. Wishart shortly.
"Different from what you mean?"
"Different from what is meant here, when we use the term."
"You _don't_ mean anything honest and religious?" said Madge.
"O, honest! My dear, everybody is honest, or supposed to be; but we do
not mean religious."
"Not religious, and only supposed to be honest!" echoed Madge.
"Yes," said Mrs. Wishart. "It isn't that. It has nothing to do with
that. When people have been in society, and held high positions for
generation after generation, it is a good family. The individuals need
not be all good."
"Oh--!" said Madge.
"No. I know families among the very best in the State, that have been
wicked enough; but though they have been wicked, that did not hinder
their being gentlemen."
"Oh--!" said Madge again. "I begin to comprehend."
"There is too much made of money now-a-days," Mrs. Wishart went on
serenely; "and there is no denying that money buys position. _I_ do not
call a good family one that was not a good family a hundred years ago;
but everybody is not so particular. Not here. They are more particular
in Philadelphia. In New York, any nobody who has money can push himself
forward."
"What sort of family is Mr. Dillwyn's?"
"O, good, of course. Not wealthy, till lately. They have been poor,
ever since I knew the family; until the sister married Chauncey
Burrage, and Philip came into his property."
"The Caruthers are rich, aren't they?"
"Yes."
"And now the young one has made a great match? Is she handsome?"
"I never heard so. But she is rolling in money."
"What else is she?" inquired Madge dryly.
"She is a Dulcimer."
"That tells me nothing," said Madge. "By the way you speak it, the word
seems to have a good deal of meaning for you."
"Certainly," said Mrs. Wishart. "She is one of the Philadelphia
Dulcimers. It is an old family, and they have always been wealthy."
"How happy the gentleman must be!"
"I hope so," said Mrs. Wishart gravely. "_You_ used to know Tom quite
well, Lois. What did you think of him?"
"I liked him," said Lois. "Very pleasant and amiable, and always
gentlemanly. But I did not think he had much character."
Mrs. Wishart was satisfied; for Lois's tone was as disengaged as
anything could possibly be.
Lois could not bring herself to say anything to Madge that night about
the turn in her fortunes. Her own thoughts were in too much agitation,
and only by slow degrees resolving themselves into settled conclusions.
Or rather, for the conclusions were not doubtful, settling into such
quiet that she could look at conclusions. And Lois began to be afraid
to do even that, and tried to turn her eyes away, and thought of the
hour of half-past ten next morning with trembling and heart-beating.
It came with tremendous swiftness, too. However, she excused herself
from going to the _matinée_, though with difficulty. Mrs. Wishart was
sure she ought to go; and Madge tried persuasion and raillery. Lois
watched her get ready, and at last contentedly saw the two drive off.
That was good. She wanted no discussion with them before she had seen
Mr. Dillwyn again; and now the coast was clear. But then Lois retreated
to her own room up-stairs to wait; she could not stay in the
drawing-room, to be found there. She would have so much time for
preparation as his ring at the door and his name being brought
up-stairs would give her. Preparation for what? When the summons came,
Lois went down feeling that she had not a bit of preparation.
Philip was standing in the middle of the floor, waiting for her; and
the apparition that greeted him was so unexpected that he stood still,
feasting his eyes with it. He had always seen Lois calm, collected,
moving and speaking with frank independence, although with perfect
modesty. Now?--how was it? Eyes cast down, colour coming and going; a
look and manner, not of shyness, for she came straight to him, but of
the most lovely maidenly consciousness; of all things, that which a
lover would most wish to see. Yet she came straight to him, and as he
met her and held out his hand, she put hers in it.
"What are you going to say to me this morning, Lois?" he said softly;
for the pure dignity of the girl was a thing to fill him with reverence
as well as with delight, and her hand seemed to him something sacred.
Her colour stirred again, but the lowered eyelids were lifted up, and
the eyes met his with a most blessed smile in them.
"I am very happy, Mr. Dillwyn," she said.
Everybody knows how words fail upon occasion; and on this occasion the
silence lasted some considerable time. And then Philip put Lois into
one of the big easy-chairs, and went down on one knee at her feet,
holding her hand. Lois tried to collect her spirits to make
remonstrance.
"O, Mr. Dillwyn, do not stay there!" she begged.
"Why not? It becomes me."
"I do not think it becomes you at all," said Lois, laughing a little
nervously,--"and I am sure it does not become me."
"Mistaken on both points! It becomes me well, and I think it does not
become you ill," said he, kissing the hand he held. And then, bending
forward to carry his kiss from the hand to the cheek,--"O my darling,
how long I have waited for this!"
"Long?" said Lois, in surprise. How pretty the incredulity was on her
innocent face.
"Very long!--while you thought I was liking somebody else. There has
never been any change in me, Lois. I have been patiently and
impatiently waiting for you this great while. You will not think it
unreasonable, if that fact makes me intolerant of any more waiting,
will you?"
"Don't keep that position!" said Lois earnestly.
"It is the position I mean to keep all the rest of my life!"
But that set Lois to laughing, a little nervously no doubt, yet so
merrily that Philip could not but join in.
"Do I not owe everything to you?" he went on presently, with tender
seriousness. "You first set me upon thinking. Do you recollect your
earliest talk to me here in this room once, a good while ago, about
being _satisfied?_"
"Yes," said Lois, suddenly opening her eyes.
"That was the beginning. You said it to me more with your looks than
with your words; for I saw that, somehow, you were in the secret, and
had yourself what you offered to me. _That_ I could not forget. I had
never seen anybody 'satisfied' before."
"You know what it means now?" she said softly.
"To-day?-- I do!"
"No, no; I do not mean to-day. You know what I mean!" she said, with
beautiful blushes.
"I know. Yes, and I have it, Lois. But you have a great deal to teach
me yet."
"O no!" she said most unaffectedly. "It is you who will have to teach
me."
"What?"
"Everything."
"How soon may I begin?"
"How soon?"
"Yes. You do not think Mrs. Wishart's house is the best place, or her
company the best assistance for that, do you?"
"Ah, please get up!" said Lois.
But he laughed at her.
"You make me so ashamed!"
"You do not look it in the least. Shall I tell you my plans?"
"Plans!" said Lois.
"Or will you tell me your plans?"
"Ah, you are laughing at me! What do you mean?"
"You were confiding to me your plans of a little while ago;
Esterbrooke, and school, and all the rest of it. My darling!--that's
all nowhere."
"But,"--said Lois timidly.
"Well?"
"_That_ is all gone, of course. But--"
"You will let me say what you shall do?"
"I suppose you will."
"Your hand is in all my plans, from henceforth, to turn them and twist
them what way you like. But now let me tell you my present plans. We
will be married, as soon as you can accustom your self to the idea.
Hush!--wait. You shall have time to think about it. Then, as early as
spring winds will let us, we will cross to England."
"England?" cried Lois.
"Wait, and hear me out. There we will look about us a while and get
such things as you may want for travelling, which one can get better in
England than anywhere else. Then we will go over the Channel and see
Paris, and perhaps supplement purchases there. So work our way--"
"Always making purchases?" said Lois, laughing, though she caught her
breath too, and her colour was growing high.
"Certainly, making purchases. So work our way along, and get to
Switzerland early in June--say by the end of the first week."
"Switzerland!"
"Don't you want to see Switzerland?"
"But it is not the question, what I might like to see."
"With me it is."
"As for that, I have an untirable appetite for seeing things.
But--but," and her voice lowered, "I can be quite happy enough on this
side."
"Not if I can make you happier on the other."
"But that depends. I should not be happy unless I was quite sure it was
right, and the best thing to do; and it looks to me like a piece of
self-indulgence. We have so much already."
The gentle manner of this scruple and frank admission touched Mr.
Dillwyn exceedingly.
"I think it is right," he said. "Do you remember my telling you once
about my old house at home?"
"Yes, a little."
"I think I never told you much; but now you will care to hear. It is a
good way from this place, in Foster county, and not very far from a
busy little manufacturing town; but it stands alone in the country, in
the midst of fields and woods that I used to love very much when I was
a boy. The place never came into my possession till about seven or
eight years ago; and for much longer than that it has been neglected
and left without any sort of care. But the house is large and
old-fashioned, and can be made very pretty; and the grounds, as I
think, leave nothing to be desired, in their natural capabilities.
However, all is in disorder, and needs a good deal of work done up on
it; which must be done before you take possession. This work will
require some months. Where can we be better, meanwhile, than in
Switzerland?"
"Can the work be done without you?"
"Yes."
He waited a bit. The new things at work in Lois's mind made the new
expression of manner and feature a most delicious study to him. She had
a little difficulty in speaking, and he was still and watched her.
"I am afraid to talk about it," she said at length,
"Why?"
"I should like it so much!"--
"Therefore you doubt?"
"Yes. I am afraid of listening just to my own pleasure."
"You shall not," said he, laughing. "Listen to mine. I want to see your
eyes open at the Jung Frau, and Mont Blanc."
"My eyes open easily at anything," said Lois, yielding to the
laugh;--"they are such ignorant eyes."
"Very wise eyes, on the contrary! for they know a thing when they see
it."
"But they have seen so little," said Lois, finding it impossible to get
back to a serious demeanour.
"That sole defect in your character, I propose to cure."
"Ah, do not praise me!"
"Why not? I used to rejoice in the remembrance that you were not an
angel but human. Do you know the old lines?--
'A creature _not_ too bright and good
For human nature's daily food;
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles.'
Only 'wiles' you never descend to; 'blame' is not to be thought of; if
you forbid praise, what is left to me but the rest of it?"
And truly, what with laughter and some other emotions, tears were not
far from Lois's eyes; and how could the kisses be wanting?
"I never heard you talk so before!" she managed to say.
"I have only begun."
"Please come back to order, and sobriety."
"Sobriety is not in order, as your want of it shows."
"Then come back to Switzerland."
"Ah!--I want you to go up the AEggischhorn, and to stand on the Görner
Grät, and to cross a pass or two; and I want you to see the flowers."
"Are there so many?"
"More than on a western prairie in spring. Most people travel in
Switzerland later in the season, and so miss the flowers. You must not
miss them."
"What flowers are they?"
"A very great many kinds. I remember the gentians, and the
forget-me-nots; but the profusion is wonderful, and exceedingly rich.
They grow just at the edge of the snow, some of them. Then we will
linger a while at Zermatt and Chamounix, and a mountain _pension_ here
and there, and so slowly work our way over into Italy. It will be too
late for Rome; but we will go, if you like it, to Venice; and then, as
the heats grow greater, get back into the Tyrol."
"O, Mrs. Barclay had beautiful views from the Tyrol; a few, but very
beautiful."
"How do you like my programme?"
"You have not mentioned glaciers."
"Are you' interested in glaciers?"
"_Very_ much."
"You shall see as much of them as you can see safely from terra firma."
"Are they so dangerous?"
"Sometimes."
"But you have crossed them, have you not?"
"Times enough to make me scruple about your doing it."
"I am very sure-footed."
He kissed her hand, and inquired again what she thought of his
programme.
"There is no fault to be found with the programme. But--"
"If I add to it the crossing of a glacier?"
"No, no," said Lois, laughing; "do you think I am so insatiable? But--"
"Would you like it all, my darling?"
"Like it? Don't speak of liking," she said, with a quick breath of
excitement. "But--"
"Well? But--what?"
"We are not going to live to ourselves?" She said it a little anxiously
and eagerly, almost pleadingly.
"I do not mean it," he answered her, with a smile. "But as to this
journey my mind is entirely clear. It will take but a few months. And
while we are wandering over the mountains, you and I will take our
Bibles and study them and our work together. We can study where we stop
to rest and where we stop to eat; I know by experience what good times
and places those are for other reading; and they cannot be so good for
any as for this."
"Oh! how good!" said Lois, giving a little delighted and grateful
pressure to the hand in which her own still lay.
"You agree to my plans, then?"
"I agree to--part. What is that?"--for a slight noise was heard in the
hall.--"O Philip, get up!--get up!--there is somebody coming!"
Mr. Dillwyn rose now, being bidden on this wise, and stood confronting
the doorway, in which presently appeared his sister, Mrs. Burrage. He
stood quiet and calm to meet her; while Lois, hidden by the back of the
great easy-chair, had a moment to collect herself. He shielded her as
much as he could. A swift review of the situation made him resolve for
the present to "play dark." He could not trust his sister, that if the
truth of the case were suddenly made known to her, she would not by her
speech, or manner, or by her silence maybe, do something that would
hurt Lois. He would not risk it. Give her time, and she would fit
herself to her circumstances gracefully enough, he knew; and Lois need
never be told what had been her sister-in-law's first view of them. So
he stood, with an unconcerned face, watching Mrs. Burrage come down the
room. And she, it may be said, came slowly, watching him.