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<h3 id="id02424" style="margin-top: 3em">CHAPTER XXI.</h3> <h3 id="id02425" style="margin-top: 3em">GREVILLE'S MEMOIRS.</h3> Mrs. Barclay found her room pleasant, her bed excellent, and all the arrangements and appointments simple, indeed, but quite sufficient. The next morning brought brilliant sunlight, glittering in the elm trees, and on the green sward which filled large spaces in the street, and on chimneys and housetops, and on the bit of the Connecticut river which was visible in the distance. Quiet it was certainly, and peaceful, and at the same time the sight was inspiriting. Mrs. Barclay dressed and went down; and there she found her parlour in order, the sunlight streaming in, and a beautiful fire blazing to welcome her. "This is luxury!" thought she, as she took her place in a comfortable rocking-chair before the fire. "But how am I to get at my work!"—Presently Lois came in, looking like a young rose. "I beg pardon!" she said, greeting Mrs. Barclay, "but I left my duster—" Has she been putting my room in order! thought the lady. This elegant creature? But she showed nothing of her feeling; only asked Lois if she were busy. "No," said Lois, with a smile; "I have done. Do you want something of me?" "Yes, in that case. Sit down, and let us get acquain'ted." Lois sat down, duster in hand, and looked pleasantly ready. "I am afraid I am giving you a great deal of trouble! If you get tired of me, you must just let me know. Will you?" "There is no fear," Lois assured her. "We are very glad to have you. If only you do not get tired of our quiet. It is very quiet, after what you have been accustomed to." "Just what I want! I have been longing for the country; and the air here is delicious. I cannot get enough of it. I keep sniffing up the salt smell. And you have made me so comfortable! How lovely those old elms are over the way! I could hardly get dressed, for looking at them. Do you draw?" "I? O no!" cried Lois. "I have been to school, of course, but I have learned only common things. I do not know anything about drawing." "Perhaps you will let me teach you?" The colour flashed into the girl's cheeks; she made no answer at first, and then murmured, "You are very kind!" "One must do something, you know," Mrs. Bar clay said. "I cannot let all your goodness make me idle. I am very fond of drawing, myself; it has whiled away many an hour for me. Besides, it enables one to keep a record of pretty and pleasant things, wherever one goes." "We live among our pleasant things," said Lois; "but I should think that would be delightful for the people who travel." "You will travel some day." "No, there is no hope of that." "You would like it, then?" "O, who would not like it! I went with Mrs. Wishart to the Isles of Shoals last summer; and it was the first time I began to have a notion what a place the world is." "And what a place do you think it is?" "O, so wonderfully full of beautiful things—so full! so full!—and of such different beautiful things. I had only known Shampuashuh and the Sound and New York; and Appledore was like a new world." Lois spoke with a kind of inner fire, which sparkled in her eyes and gave accent to her words. "What was the charm? I do not know Appledore," said Mrs. Barclay carelessly, but watching her. "It is difficult to put some things in words. I seemed to be out of the world of everyday life, and surrounded by what was pure and fresh and powerful and beautiful—it all comes back to me now, when I think of the surf breaking on the rocks, and the lights and colours, and the feeling of the air." "But how were the people? were they uncommon too? Part of one's impression is apt to come from the human side of the thing." "Mine did not. The people of the Islands are queer, rough people, almost as strange as all the rest; but I saw more of some city people staying at the hotel; and they did not fit the place at all." "Why not?" "They did not enjoy it. They did not seem to see what I saw, unless they were told of it; nor then either." "Well, you must come in and let me teach you to draw," said Mrs. Barclay. "I shall want to feel that I have some occupation, or I shall not be happy. Perhaps your sister will come too." "Madge? O, thank you! how kind of you! I do not know whether Madge ever thought of such a thing." "You are the man of business of the house. What is she?" "Madge is the dairywoman, and the sempstress. But we all do that." "You are fond of reading? I have brought a few books with me, which I hope you will use freely. I shall unpack them by and by." "That will be delightful," Lois said, with a bright expression of pleasure. "We have not subscribed to the library, because we felt we could hardly spare the money." They were called to breakfast; and Mrs. Barclay studied again with fresh interest all the family group. No want of capacity and receptive readiness, she was sure; nor of active energy. Sense, and self-reliance, and independence, and quick intelligence, were to be read in the face and manner of each one; good ground to work upon. Still Mrs. Barclay privately shook her head at her task. "Miss Madge," she said suddenly, "I have been proposing to teach your sister to draw. Would you like to join her?" Madge seemed too much astonished to answer immediately. Charity spoke up and asked, "To draw what?" "Anything she likes. Pretty things, and places." "I don't see what's the use. When you've got a pretty thing, what should you draw it for?" "Suppose you have not got it." "Then you can't draw it," said Charity. "O Charity, you don't understand," cried Lois. "If I had known how to draw, I could have brought you home pictures of the Isles of Shoals last summer." "They wouldn't have been like." Lois laughed, and Mrs. Barclay remarked, that was rather begging the question. "What question?" said Charity. "I mean, you are assuming a thing without evidence." "It don't need evidence," said Charity. "I never saw a picture yet that was worth a red cent. It's only a make-believe." "Then you will not join our drawing class, Miss Charity?" "No; and I should think Madge had better stick to her sewing. There's plenty to do." "Duty comes first," said the old lady; "and I shouldn't think duty would leave much time for making marks on paper." The first thing Mrs. Barclay did after breakfast was to unpack some of her books and get out her writing box; and then the impulse seized her to write to Mr. Dillwyn. "I had meant to wait," she wrote him, "and not say anything to you until I had had more time for observation; but I have seen so much already that my head is in an excited state, and I feel I must relieve myself by talking to you. Which of these ladies is the one? Is it the black-haired beauty, with her white forehead and clean-cut features? she is very handsome! But the other, I confess, is my favourite; she is less handsome, but more lovely. Yes, she is lovely; and both of them have capacity and cleverness. But, Philip, they belong to the strictly religious sort; I see that; the old grandmother is a regular Puritan, and the girls follow her lead; and I am in a confused state of mind thinking what can ever be the end of it all. Whatever would you do with such a wife, Philip Dillwyn? You are not a bad sort of man at all; at least you know I think well of you; but you are not a Puritan, and this little girl is. I do not mean to say anything against her; only, you want me to make a woman of the world out of the girl—and I doubt much whether I shall be able. There is strength in the whole family; it is a characteristic of them; a capital trait, of course, but in certain cases interfering with any effort to mould or bend the material to which it belongs. What would you do, Philip, with a wife who would disapprove of worldly pleasures, and refuse to take part in worldly plans, and insist on bringing all questions to the bar of the Bible? I have indeed heard no distinctively religious conversation here yet; but I cannot be mistaken; I see what they are; I know what they will say when they open their lips. I feel as if I were a swindler, taking your money on false pretences; setting about an enterprise which may succeed, possibly, but would succeed little to your advantage. Think better of it and give it up! I am unselfish in saying that; for the people please me. Life in their house, I can fancy, might be very agreeable to me; but I am not seeking to marry them, and so there is no violent forcing of incongruities into union and fellowship. Phil, you cannot marry a Puritan." How Mrs. Barclay was to initiate a system of higher education in this farmhouse, she did not clearly see. Drawing was a simple thing enough; but how was she to propose teaching languages, or suggest algebra, or insist upon history? She must wait, and feel her way; and in the meantime she scattered books about her room, books chosen with some care, to act as baits; hoping so by and by to catch her fish. Meanwhile she made herself very agreeable in the family; and that without any particular exertion, which she rightly judged would hinder and not help her object. "Isn't she pleasant?" said Lois one evening, when the family were alone. "She's elegant!" said Madge. "She has plenty to say for herself," added Charity. "But she don't look like a happy woman, Lois," Madge went on. "Her face is regularly sad, when she ain't talking." "But it's sweet when she is." "I'll tell you what, girls," said Charity,—"she's a real proud woman." "O Charity! nothing of the sort," cried Lois. "She is as kind as she can be." "Who said she wasn't? I said she was proud, and she is. She's a right, for all I know; she ain't like our Shampuashuh people." "She is a lady," said Lois. "What do you mean by that, Lois?" Madge fired up. "You don't mean, I hope, that the rest of us are not ladies, do you?" "Not like her." "Well, why should we be like her?" "Because her ways are so beautiful. I should be glad to be like her. She is just what you called her—elegant." "Everybody has their own ways," said Madge. "I hope none of you will be like her," said Mrs. Armadale gravely; "for she's a woman of the world, and knows the world's ways, and she knows nothin' else, poor thing!" "But, grandmother," Lois put in, "some of the world's ways are good." "Be they?" said the old lady. "I don' know which of 'em." "Well, grandmother, this way of beautiful manners. They don't all have it—I don't mean that—but some of them do. They seem to know exactly how to behave to everybody, and always what to do or to say; and you can see Mrs. Barclay is one of those. And I like those people. There is a charm about them." "Don't you always know what's right to do or say, with the Bible before you?" "O grandmother, but I mean in little things; little words and ways, and tones of voice even. It isn't like Shampuashuh people." "Well, we're Shampuashuh folks," said Charity. "I hope you won't set up for nothin' else, Lois. I guess your head got turned a bit, with goin' round the world. But I wish I knew what makes her look so sober!" "She has lost her husband." "Other folks have lost their husbands, and a good many of 'em have found another. Don't be ridiculous, Lois!" The first bait that took, in the shape of books, was Scott's "Lady of the Lake." Lois opened it one day, was caught, begged to be allowed to read it; and from that time had it in her hand whenever her hand was free to hold it. She read it aloud, sometimes, to her grandmother, who listened with a half shake of her head, but allowed it was pretty. Charity was less easy to bribe with sweet sounds. "What on earth is the use of that?" she demanded one day, when she had stood still for ten minutes in her way through the room, to hear the account of Fitz James's adventure in the wood with Roderick Dhu. "Don't you like it?" said Lois. "Don't make head or tail of it. And there sits Madge with her mouth open, as if it was something to eat; and Lois's cheeks are as pink as if she expected the people to step out and walk in. Mother, do you like all that stuff?" "It is poetry, Charity," cried Lois. "What's the use o' poetry? can you tell me? It seems to me nonsense for a man to write in that way. If he has got something to say, why don't he say it, and be done with it?" "He does say it, in a most beautiful way." "It'd be a queer way of doing business!" "It is not business," said Lois, laughing. "Charity, will you not understand? It is poetry." "What is poetry?" But alas! Charity had asked what nobody could answer, and she had the field in triumph. "It is just a jingle-jangle, and what I call nonsense. Mother, ain't that what you would say is a waste of time?" "I don't know, my dear," said Mrs. Armadale doubtfully, applying her knitting needle to the back of her ear. "It isn't nonsense; it is delightful!" said Madge indignantly. "You want me to go on, grandmother, don't you?" said Lois. "We want to know about the fight, when the two get to Coilantogle ford." And as she was not forbidden, she went on; while Charity got the spice-box she had come for, and left the room superior. The "Lady of the Lake" was read through. Mrs. Barclay had hoped to draw on some historical inquiries by means of it; but before she could find a chance, Lois took up Greville's Memoirs. This she read to herself; and not many pages, before she came with the book and a puzzled face to Mrs. Barclay's room. Mrs. Barclay was, we may say, a fisher lying in wait for a bite; now she saw she had got one; the thing was to haul in the line warily and skilfully. She broke up a piece of coal on the fire, and gave her visitor an easy-chair. "Sit there, my dear. I am very glad of your company. What have you in your hand? Greville?" "Yes. I want to ask you about some things. Am I not disturbing you?" "Most agreeably. I can have nothing better to do than to talk with you. What is the question?" "There are several questions. It seems to me a very strange book!" "Perhaps it is. But why do you say so?" "Perhaps I should rather say that the people are strange. Is this what the highest society in England is like?" "In what particulars, do you mean?" "Why, I think Shampuashuh is better. I am sure Shampuashuh would be ashamed of such doings." "What are you thinking of?" Mrs. Barclay asked, carefully repressing a smile. "Why, here are people with every advantage, with money and with education, and with the power of place and rank,—living for nothing but mere amusement, and very poor amusement too." "The conversations alluded to were very often not poor amusement. Some of the society were very brilliant and very experienced men." "But they did nothing with their lives." "How does that appear?" "Here, at the Duke of York's," said Lois, turning over her leaves;—"they sat up till four in the morning playing whist; and on Sunday they amused themselves shooting pistols and eating fruit in the garden, and playing with the monkeys! That is like children." "My dear, half the world do nothing with their lives, as you phrase it." "But they ought. And you expect it of people in high places, and having all sorts of advantages." "You expect, then, what you do not find." "And is all of what is called the great world, no better than that?" "Some of it is better." (O Philip, Philip, where are you? thought Mrs. Barclay.) "They do not all play whist all night. But you know, Lois, people come together to be amused; and it is not everybody that can talk, or act, sensibly for a long stretch." "How can they play cards all night?" "Whist is very ensnaring. And the little excitement of stakes draws people on." "Stakes?" said Lois inquiringly. "Sums staked on the game." "Oh! But that is worse than foolish." "It is to keep the game from growing tiresome. Do you see any harm in it?" "Why, that's gambling." "In a small way." "Is it always in a small way?" "People do not generally play very high at whist." "It is all the same thing," said Lois. "People begin with a little, and then a little will not satisfy them." "True; but one must take the world as one finds it." "Is the New York world like this?" said Lois, after a moment's pause. "No! Not in the coarseness you find Mr. Greville tells of. In the matter of pleasure-seeking, I am afraid times and places are much alike. Those who live for pleasure, are driven to seek it in all manner of ways. The ways sometimes vary; the principle does not." "And do all the men gamble?" "No. Many do not touch cards. My friend, Mr. Dillwyn, for example." "Mr. Dillwyn? Do you know him?" "Very well. He was a dear friend of my husband, and has been a faithful friend to me. Do you know him?" "A little. I have seen him." "You must not expect too much from the world, my dear." "According to what you say, one must not expect anything from it." "That is too severe." "No," said Lois. "What is there to admire or respect in a person who lives only for pleasure?" "Sometimes there are fine qualities, and brilliant parts, and noble powers." "Ah, that makes it only worse!" cried Lois. "Fine qualities, and brilliant parts, and noble powers, all used for nothing! That is miserable; and when there is so much to do in the world, too!" "Of what kind?" asked Mrs. Barclay, curious to know her companion's course of thought. "O, help." "What sort of help?" "Almost all sorts," said Lois. "You must know even better than I. Don't you see a great many people in New York that are in want of some sort of help?" "Yes; but it is not always easy to give, even where the need is greatest. People's troubles come largely from their follies." "Or from other people's follies." "That is true. But how would you help, Lois?" "Where there's a will, there's a way, Mrs. Barclay." "You are thinking of help to the poor? There is a great deal of that done." "I am thinking of poverty, and sickness, and weakness, and ignorance, and injustice. And a grand man could do a great deal. But not if he lived like the creatures in this book. I never saw such a book." "But we must take men as we find them; and most men are busy seeking their own happiness. You cannot blame them for that. It is human nature." "I blame them for seeking it so. And it is not happiness that people play whist for, till four o'clock in the morning." "What then?" "Forgetfulness, I should think; distraction; because they do not know anything about happiness." "Who does?" said Mrs. Barclay sadly. Lois was silent, not because she had not something to say, but because she was not certain how best to say it. There was no doubt in her sweet face, rather a grave assurance which stimulated Mrs. Barclay's curiosity. "We must take people as we find them," she repeated. "You cannot expect men who live for pleasure to give up their search for the sake of other people's pleasure." "Yet that is the way,—which they miss," said Lois. "The way to what?" "To real enjoyment. To life that is worth living." "What would you have them do?" "Only what the Bible says." "I do not believe I know the Bible as well as you do. Of what directions are you thinking? 'The poor ye have always with you'?" "Not that," said Lois. "Let me get my Bible, and I will tell you.—This, Mrs. Barclay—'To loose the bands of wickedness, to undo the heavy burdens, and to let the oppressed go free, and that ye break every yoke….. To deal thy bread to the hungry, and that thou bring the poor that are cast out to thy house; when thou seest the naked, that thou cover him; and that thou hide not thyself from thine own flesh'….." "And do you think, to live right, one must live so?" "It is the Bible!" said Lois, with so innocent a look of having answered all questions, that Mrs. Barclay was near smiling. "Do you think anybody ever did live so?" "Job." "Did he! I forget." Lois turned over some leaves, and again read—"'When the ear heard me, then it blessed me; and when the eye saw me, it gave witness to me: because I delivered the poor that cried, and the fatherless, and him that had none to help him. The blessing of him that was ready to perish came upon me: and I caused the widow's heart to sing for joy…. I was eyes to the blind, and feet was I to the lame. I was a father to the poor: and the cause that I knew not I searched out. And I brake the jaws of the wicked, and plucked the spoil out of his teeth.'" "To be a father to the poor, in these days, would give a man enough to do, certainly; especially if he searched out all the causes which were doubtful. It would take all a man's time, and all his money too, if he were as rich as Job;—unless you put some limit, Lois." "What limit, Mrs. Barclay?" "Do you put none? I was not long ago speaking with a friend, such a man of parts and powers as was mentioned just now; a man who thus far in his life has done nothing but for his own cultivation and amusement. I was urging upon him to do something with himself; but I did not tell him what. It did not occur to me to set him about righting ail the wrongs of the world." "Is he a Christian?" "I am afraid you would not say so." "Then he could not. One must love other people, to live for them." "Love all sorts?" said Mrs. Barclay. "You cannot work for them unless you do." "Then it is hopeless!—unless one is born with an exceptional mind." "O no," said Lois, smiling, "not hopeless. The love of Christ brings the love of all that he loves." There was a glow and a sparkle, and a tenderness too, in the girl's face, which made Mrs. Barclay look at her in a somewhat puzzled admiration. She did not understand Lois's words, and she saw that her face was a commentary upon them; therefore also unintelligible; but it was strangely pure and fair. "You would do for Philip, I do believe," she thought, "if he could get you; but he will never get you." Aloud she said nothing. By and by Lois returned to the book she had brought in with her. "Here are some words which I cannot read; they are not English. What are they?" Mrs. Barclay read: "Le bon goût, les ris, l'aimable liberté. That is French." "What does it mean?" "Good taste, laughter, and charming liberty. You do not know French?" "O no," said Lois, with a sort of breath of longing. "French words come in quite often here, and I am always so curious to know what they mean." "Very well, why not learn? I will teach you." "O, Mrs. Barclay!"— "It will give me the greatest pleasure. And it is very easy." "O, I do not care about that," said Lois; "but I would be so glad to know a little more than I do." "You seem to me to have thought a good deal more than most girls of your age; and thought is better than knowledge." "Ah, but one needs knowledge in order to think justly." "An excellent remark! which—if you will for give me—I was making to myself a few minutes ago." "A few minutes ago? About what I said? O, but there I have knowledge," said Lois, smiling. "You are sure of that?" "Yes," said Lois, gravely now. "The Bible cannot be mistaken, Mrs. Barclay." "But your application of it?" "How can that be mistaken? The words are plain." "Pardon me. I was only venturing to think that you could have seen little, here in Shampuashuh, of the miseries of the world, and so know little of the difficulty of getting rid of them, or of ministering to them effectually." "Not much," Lois agreed. "Yet I have seen so much done by people without means—I thought, those who have means might do more." "What have you seen? Do tell me. Here I am ignorant; except in so far as I know what some large societies accomplish, and fail to accomplish." "I have not seen much," Lois repeated. "But I know one person, a farmer's wife, no better off than a great many people here, who has brought up and educated a dozen girls who were friendless and poor." "A dozen girls!" Mrs. Barclay echoed. "I think there have been thirteen. She had no children of her own; she was comfortably well off; and she took these girls, one after another, sometimes two or three together; and taught them and trained them, and fed and clothed them, and sent them to school; and kept them with her until one by one they married off. They all turned out well." "I am dumb!" said Mrs. Barclay. "Giving money is one thing; I can understand that; but taking strangers' children into one's house and home life—and a dozen strangers' children!" "I know another woman, not so well off, who does her own work, as most do here; who goes to nurse any one she hears of that is sick and cannot afford to get help. She will sit up all night taking care of somebody, and then at break of the morning go home to make her own fire and get her own family's breakfast." "But that is superb!" cried Mrs. Barclay. "And my father," Lois went on, with a lowered voice,—"he was not very well off, but he used to keep a certain little sum for lending; to lend to anybody that might be in great need; and generally, as soon as one person paid it back another person was in want of it." "Was it always paid back?" "Always; except, I think, at two times. Once the man died before he could repay it. The other time it was lent to a woman, a widow; and she married again, and between the man and the woman my father never could get his money. But it was made up to him another way. He lost nothing." "You have been in a different school from mine, Lois," said Mrs. Barclay. "I am filled with admiration." "You see," Lois went on, "I thought, if with no money or opportunity to speak of, one can do so much, what might be done if one had the power and the will too?" "But in my small experience it is by no means the rule, that money lent is honestly paid back again." "Ah," said Lois, with an irradiating smile, "but this money was lent to the Lord; I suppose that makes the difference." "And are you bound to think well of no man but one who lives after this exalted fashion? How will you ever get married, Lois?" "I should not like to be married to this Duke of York the book tells of; nor to the writer of the book," Lois said, smiling. "That Duke of York was brother to the King of England." "The King was worse yet! He was not even respectable." "I believe you are right. Come—let us begin our French lessons." With shy delight, Lois came near and followed with most eager attention the instructions of her friend. Mrs. Barclay fetched a volume of Florian's "Easy Writing"; and to the end of her life Lois will never forget the opening sentences in which she made her first essay at French pronunciation, and received her first knowledge of what French words mean. "Non loin de la ville de Cures, dans le pays des Sabins, au milieu d'une antique forêt, s'élève un temple consacré à Cérès." So it began; and the words had a truly witching interest for Lois.. But while she delightedly forgot all she had been talking about, Mrs. Barclay, not delightedly, recalled and went over it. Philip, Philip! your case is dark! she was saying. And what am I about, trying to help you! <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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