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<h3 id="id00990" style="margin-top: 3em">CHAPTER IX.</h3> <h3 id="id00991" style="margin-top: 3em">THE FAMILY.</h3> The spring day was fading into the dusk of evening, when feet and voices heard outside announced that the travellers were returning. And in they came, bringing a breeze of business and a number of tied-up parcels with them into the quiet house. "The table ready! how good! and the fire. O, it's Lois! Lois is here!"—and then there were warm embraces, and then the old grandmother was kissed. There were two girls, one tall, the other very tall. "I'm tired to death!" said the former of these. "Charity would do no end of work; you know she is a steam-engine, and she had the steam up to-day, I can tell you. There's no saying how good supper will be; for our lunch wasn't much, and not good at that; and there's something good here, I can tell by my nose. Did you take care of the milk, Lois? you couldn't know where to set it." "There is no bread, Lois. I suppose you found out?" the other sister said. "O, she's made biscuits!" said Madge. "Aren't you a brick, though, Lois! I was expecting we'd have everything to do; and it's all done. Ain't that what you call comfortable? Is the tea made? I'll be ready in a minute." But that was easier said than done. "Lois! what sort of hats are they wearing in New York?" "Lois, are mantillas fashionable? The woman in New Haven, the milliner, said everybody was going to wear them. She wanted to make me get one." "We can make a mantilla as well as she can," Lois answered. "If we had the pattern! But is everybody wearing them in New York?" "I think it must be early for mantillas." "O, lined and wadded, of course. But is every body wearing them?" "I do not know. I do not recollect." "Not recollect!" cried the tall sister. "What are your eyes good for? What do people wear?" "I wore my coat and cape. I do not know very well about other people. People wear different things." "O, but that they do not, Lois!" the other sister exclaimed. "There is always one thing that is the fashion; and that is the thing one wants to know about. Last year it was visites. Now what is it this year? And what are the hats like?" "They are smaller." "There! And that woman in New Haven said they were going to be large still. Who is one to trust!" "You may trust me," said Lois. "I am sure of so much. Moreover, there is my new straw bonnet which Mrs. Wishart gave me; you can see by that." This was very satisfactory; and talk ran on in the same line for some time. "And Lois, have you seen a great many people? At Mrs. Wishart's, I mean." "Yes, plenty; at her house and at other houses." "Was it great fun?" Madge asked. "Sometimes. But indeed, yes; it was great fun generally, to see the different ways of people, and the beautiful houses, and furniture, and pictures, and everything." "Everything! Was everything beautiful?" "No, not beautiful; but everything in most of the houses where I went was handsome; often it was magnificent." "I suppose it seemed so to you," said Charity. "Tell us, Lois!" urged the other sister. "What do you think of solid silver dishes to hold the vegetables on the table, and solid silver pudding dishes, and gold teaspoons, in the most delicate little painted cups?" "I should say it was ridiculous," said the elder sister. "What's the use o' havin' your vegetables in silver dishes?" "What's the use of having them in dishes at all?" laughed Lois. "They might be served in big cabbage leaves; or in baskets." "That's nonsense," said Charity. "Of course they must be in dishes of some sort; but vegetables don't taste any better out o' silver." "The dinner does not taste any better," said Lois, "but it looks a deal better, I can tell you. You have just no idea, girls, how beautiful a dinner table can be. The glass is beautiful; delicate, thin, clear glass, cut with elegant flowers and vines running over it. And the table linen is a pleasure to see, just the damask; it is so white, and so fine, and so smooth, and woven in such lovely designs. Mrs. Wishart is very fond of her table linen, and has it in beautiful patterns. Then silver is always handsome. Then sometimes there is a most superb centre-piece to the table; a magnificent tall thing of silver—I don't know what to call it; not a vase, and not a dish; but high, and with different bowls or shells filled with flowers and fruit. Why the mere ice-creams sometimes were in all sorts of pretty flower and fruit forms." "Ice-cream!" cried Madge. "And I say, what's the use of all that?" said Charity, who had not been baptized in character. "The use is, its looking so very pretty," Lois answered. "And so, I suppose you would like to have your vegetables in silver dishes? I should like to know why things are any better for looking pretty, when all's done?" "They are not better, I suppose," said Madge. "I don't know why, but I think they must be," said Lois, innocent of the personal application which the other two were making. For Madge was a very handsome girl, while Charity was hard-favoured, like her grandmother. "It does one good to see pretty things." "That's no better than pride," said Charity. "Things that ain't pretty are just as useful, and more useful. That's all pride, silver dishes, and flowers, and stuff. It just makes people stuck-up. Don't they think themselves, all those grand folks, don't they think themselves a hitch or two higher than Shampuashuh folks?" "Perhaps," said Lois; "but I do not know, so I cannot say." "O Lois," cried Madge, "are the people very nice?" "Some of them." "You haven't lost your heart, have you?" "Only part of it." "Part of it! O, to whom, Lois? Who is it?" "Mrs. Wishart's black horses." "Pshaw!" exclaimed Charity. "Haven't Shampuashuh folks got horses? Don't tell me!" "But, Lois!" pursued Madge, "who was the nicest person you saw?" "Madge, I don't know. A good many seemed to be nice." "Well, who was the handsomest? and who was the cleverest? and who was the kindest to you? I don't mean Mrs. Wishart. Now answer." "The handsomest, and the cleverest, and the kindest to me?" Lois repeated slowly. "Well, let me see. The handsomest was a Mr. Caruthers." "Who's he?" "Mr. Caruthers." "What is he, then?" "He is a gentleman, very much thought of; rich, and knows everybody; that's about all I can tell." "Was he the cleverest, too, that you saw?" "No, I think not." "Who was that?" "Another gentleman; a Mr. Dillwyn." "Dillun!" Madge repeated. "That is the pronunciation of the name. It is spelt D, i, l, l, w, y, n,—Dilwin; but it is called Dillun." "And who was kindest to you? Go on, Lois." "O, everybody was kind to me," Lois said evasively. "Kind enough. I did not need kindness." "Whom did you like best, then?" "Of those two? They are both men of the world, and nothing to me; but of the two, I think I like the first best." "Caruthers. I shall remember," said Madge. "That is foolish talk, children," remarked Mrs. Armadale. "Yes, but grandma, you know children are bound to be foolish sometimes," returned Madge. "And then the rod of correction must drive it far from them," said the old lady. "That's the common way; but it ain't the easiest way. Lois said true; these people are nothing and can be nothing to her. I wouldn't make believe anything about it, if I was you." The conversation changed to other things. And soon took a fresh spring at the entrance of another of the family, an aunt of the girls; who lived in the neighbourhood, and came in to hear the news from New Haven as well as from New York. And then it knew no stop. While the table was clearing, and while Charity and Madge were doing up the dishes, and when they all sat down round the fire afterwards, there went on a ceaseless, restless, unending flow of questions, answers, and comments; going over, I am bound to say, all the ground already travelled during supper. Mrs. Armadale sometimes sighed to herself; but this, if the others heard it, could not check them. Mrs. Marx was a lively, clever, kind, good-natured woman; with plenty of administrative ability, like so many New England women, full of resources; quick with her head and her hands, and not slow with her tongue; an uneducated woman, and yet one who had made such good use of life-schooling, that for all practical purposes she had twice the wit of many who have gone through all the drill of the best institutions. A keen eye, a prompt judgment, and a fearless speech, all belonged to Mrs. Marx; universally esteemed and looked up to and welcomed by all her associates. She was not handsome; she was even strikingly deficient in the lines of beauty; and refinement was not one of her characteristics, other than the refinement which comes of kindness and unselfishness. Mrs. Marx would be delicately careful of another's feelings, when there was real need; she could show an exceeding great tenderness and tact then; while in ordinary life her voice was rather loud, her movements were free and angular, and her expressions very unconstrained. Nobody ever saw Mrs. Marx anything but neat, whatever she possibly might be doing; in other respects her costume was often extremely unconventional; but she could dress herself nicely and look quite as becomes a lady. Independent was Mrs. Marx, above all and in everything. "I guess she's come back all safe!" was her comment, made to Mrs. Armadale, at the conclusion of the long talk. Mrs. Armadale made no answer. "It's sort o' risky, to let a young thing like that go off by herself among all those highflyers. It's like sendin' a pigeon to sail about with the hawks." "Why, aunt Anne," said Lois at this, "whom can you possibly mean by the hawks?" "The sort o' birds that eat up pigeons." "I saw nobody that wanted to eat me up, I assure you." "There's the difference between you and a real pigeon. The pigeon knows the hawk when she sees it; you don't." "Do you think the hawks all live in cities?" "No, I don't," said Mrs. Marx. "They go swoopin' about in the country now and then. I shouldn't a bit wonder to see one come sailin' over our heads one of these fine days. But now, you see, grandma has got you under her wing again." Mrs. Marx was Mrs. Armadale's half-daughter only, and sometimes in company of others called her as her grandchildren did. "How does home look to you, Lois, now you're back in it?" "Very much as it used to look," Lois answered, smiling. "The taste ain't somehow taken out o' things? Ha' you got your old appetite for common doin's?" "I shall try to-morrow. I am going out into the garden to get some peas in." "Mine is in." "Not long, aunt Anne? the frost hasn't been long out of the ground." "Put 'em in to-day, Lois. And your garden has the sun on it; so I shouldn't wonder if you beat me after all. Well, I must go along and look arter my old man. He just let me run away now 'cause I told him I was kind o' crazy about the fashions; and he said 'twas a feminine weakness and he pitied me. So I come. Mrs. Dashiell has been a week to New London; but la! New London bonnets is no account." "You don't get much light from Lois," remarked Charity. "No. Did ye learn anything, Lois, while you was away?" "I think so, aunt Anne." "What, then? Let's hear. Learnin' ain't good for much, without you give it out." Lois, however, seemed not inclined to be generous with her stores of new knowledge. "I guess she's learned Shampuashuh ain't much of a place," the elder sister remarked further. "She's been spellin' her lesson backwards, then. Shampuashuh's a first-rate place." "But we've no grand people here. We don't eat off silver dishes, nor drink out o' gold spoons; and our horses can go without little lookin'-glasses over their heads," Charity proceeded. "Do you think there's any use in all that, Lois?" said her aunt. "I don't know, aunt Anne," Lois answered with a little hesitation. "Then I'm sorry for ye, girl, if you are left to think such nonsense. Ain't our victuals as good here, as what comes out o' those silver dishes?" "Not always." "Are New York folks better cooks than we be?" "They have servants that know how to do things." "Servants! Don't tell me o' no servants' doin's! What can they make that I can't make better?" "Can you make a soufflé, aunt Anne?" "What's that?" "Or biscuit glacé?" "Biskwee glassy?" repeated the indignant Shampuashuh lady. "What do you mean, Lois? Speak English, if I am to understand you." "These things have no English names." "Are they any the better for that?" "No; and nothing could make them better. They are as good as it is possible for anything to be; and there are a hundred other things equally good, that we know nothing about here." "I'd have watched and found out how they were done," said the elder woman, eyeing Lois with a mingled expression of incredulity and curiosity and desire, which it was comical to see. Only nobody there perceived the comicality. They sympathized too deeply in the feeling. "I would have watched," said Lois; "but I could not go down into the kitchen for it." "Why not?" "Nobody goes into the kitchen, except to give orders." "Nobody goes into the kitchen!" cried Mrs. Marx, sinking down again into a chair. She had risen to go. "I mean, except the servants." "It's the shiftlessest thing I ever heard o' New York. And do you think that's a nice way o' livin', Lois?" "I am afraid I do, aunt Anne. It is pleasant to have plenty of time for other things." "What other things?" "Reading." "Reading! La, child! I can read more books in a year than is good for me, and do all my own work, too. I like play, as well as other folks; but I like to know my work's done first. Then I can play." "Well, there the servants do the work." "And you like that? That ain't a nat'ral way o' livin', Lois; and I believe it leaves folks too much time to get into mischief. When folks hasn't business enough of their own to attend to, they're free to put their fingers in other folks' business. And they get sot up, besides. My word for it, it ain't healthy for mind nor body. And you needn't think I'm doin' what I complain of, for your business is my business. Good-bye, girls. I'll buy a cook-book the next time I go to New London, and learn how to make suflles. Lois shan't hold that whip over me." <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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