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<h3 id="id00749" style="margin-top: 3em">CHAPTER VII.</h3> <h3 id="id00750" style="margin-top: 3em">THE WORTH OF THINGS.</h3> 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!" <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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