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<h3 id="id03764" style="margin-top: 3em">CHAPTER XXXII.</h3> <h3 id="id03765" style="margin-top: 3em">A VISITOR.</h3> After that summer day, the time sped on smoothly at Shampuashuh; until the autumn coolness had replaced the heat of the dog days, and hay harvest and grain harvest were long over, and there began to be a suspicion of frost in the air. Lois had gathered in her pears, and was garnering her apples. There were two or three famous apple trees in the Lothrop old garden, the fruit of which kept sound and sweet all through the winter, and was very good to eat. One fair day in October, Mrs. Barclay, wanting to speak with Lois, was directed to the garden and sought her there. The day was as mild as summer, without summer's passion, and without spring's impulses of hope and action. A quiet day; the air was still; the light was mellow, not brilliant; the sky was clear, but no longer of an intense blue; the little racks of cloud were lying supine on its calm depths, apparently having nowhere to go and nothing to do. The driving, sweeping, changing forms of vapour, which in spring had come with rain and in summer had come with thunder, had all disappeared; and these little delicate lines of cloud lay purposeless and at rest on the blue. Nature had done her work for the year; she had grown the grass and ripened the grain, and manufactured the wonderful juices in the tissues of the fruit, and laid a new growth of woody fibre round the heart of the trees. She was resting now, as it were, content with her work. And so seemed Lois to be doing, at the moment Mrs. Barclay entered the garden. It was unusual to find her so. I suppose the witching beauty of the day beguiled her. But it was of another beauty Mrs. Barclay thought, as she drew near the girl. A short ladder stood under one of the apple trees, upon which Lois had been mounting to pluck her fruit. On the ground below stood two large baskets, full now of the ruddy apples, shining and beautiful. Beside them, on the dry turf, sat Lois with her hands in her lap; and Mrs. Barclay wondered at her as she drew near. Yet it is not too easy to tell why, at least so as to make the reader get at the sense of the words. I have the girl's image before my eyes, mentally, but words have neither form nor colour; how shall I paint with them? It was not the beauty of mere form and colour, either, that struck Mrs. Barclay in Lois's face. You may easily see more regular features and more dazzling complexion. It was not any particular brilliance of eye, or piquancy of expression. There was a soundness and fulness of young life; that is not so uncommon either. There was a steadfast strength and sweetness of nature. There was an unconscious, innocent grace, that is exceedingly rare. And a high, noble expression of countenance and air and movement, such as can belong only to one whose thoughts and aims never descend to pettinesses; who assimilates nobility by being always concerned with what is noble. And then, the face was very fair; the ruddy brown hair very rich and abundant; the figure graceful and good; all the spiritual beauty I have been endeavouring to describe had a favouring groundwork of nature to display itself upon. Mrs. Barclay's steps grew slower and slower as she came near, that she might prolong the view, which to her was so lovely. Then Lois looked at her and slightly smiled. "Lois, my dear, what are you doing?" "Not exactly nothing, Mrs. Barclay; though it looks like it. Such a day one cannot bear to go in-doors!" "You are gathering your apples?" "I have got done for to-day." "What are you studying, here beside your baskets? What beautiful apples!" "Aren't they? These are our Royal Reddings; they are good for eating and cooking, and they keep perfectly. If only they are picked off by hand." "What were you studying, Lois? May I not know?" Mrs. Barclay took an apple and a seat on the turf beside the girl. "Hardly studying. Only musing—as such a day makes one muse. I was thinking, Mrs. Barclay, what use I could make of my life." "What use? Can you make better use of it than you are doing, in taking care of Mrs. Armadale?" "Yes—as things are now. But in the common course of things I should outlive grandmamma." "Then you will marry somebody, and take care of him." "Very unlikely, I think." "May I ask, why?" "I do not know anybody that is the sort of man I could marry." "What do you require?" asked Mrs. Barclay. "A great deal, I suppose," said Lois slowly. "I have never studied that; I was not studying it just now. But I was thinking, what might be the best way of making myself of some use in the world. Foolish, too." "Why so?" "It is no use for us to lay plans for our lives; not much use for us to lay plans for anything. They are pretty sure to be broken up." "Yes," said Mrs. Barclay, sighing. "I wonder why!" "I suppose, because they do not fall in with God's plans for us." "His plans for us," repeated Mrs. Barclay slowly. "Do you believe in such things? That would mean, individual plans, Lois; for you individually, and for me?" "Yes, Mrs. Barclay—that is what I believe." "It is incomprehensible to me." "Why should it be?" "To think that the Highest should concern him self with such small details." "It is just because he is the Highest, and so high, that he can. Besides—do we know what are small details?" "But why should he care what becomes of us?" said Mrs. Barclay gloomily. "O, do you ask that? When he is Love itself, and would have the very best things for each one of us?" "We don't have them, I am sure." "Because we will not, then. To have them, we must fall in with his plans." "My dear Lois, do you know that you are talking the profoundest mysteries?" "No. They are not mysteries to me. The Bible says all I have been saying." "That is sufficient for you, and you do not stop to look into the mystery. Lois, it is all mystery. Look at all the wretched ruined lives one sees; what becomes of those plans for good for them?" "Failed, Mrs. Barclay; because of the people's unwillingness to come into the plans." "They do not know them!" "No, but they do know the steps which lead into them, and those steps they refuse to take." "I do not understand you. What steps?" "The Lord does not show us his plans. He shows us, one by one, the steps he bids us take. If we take them, one by one, they will bring us into all that God has purposed and meant for us—the very best that could come to us." "And you think his plans and purposes could be overthrown?" "Why, certainly. Else what mean Christ's lamentations over Jerusalem? 'O Jerusalem,… how often would I have gathered thy children together, even as a hen gathereth her brood under her wings, and ye would not.' I would—ye would not; and the choice lies with us." "And suppose a person falls in with these plans, as you say, step by step?" "O, then it is all good," said Lois; "the way and the end; all good. There is no mistake nor misadventure." "Nor disaster?" "Not what turns out to be such." "Lois," said Mrs. Barclay, after a thoughtful pause, "you are a very happy person!" "Yes," said Lois, smiling; "and I have just told you the reason. Don't you see? I have no care about anything." "On your principles, I do not see what need you had to consider your future way of life; to speculate about it, I mean." "No," said Lois, rising, "I have not. Only sometimes one must look a little carefully at the parting of the ways, to see which road one is meant to take." "Sit down again. I did not come out here to talk of all this. I wanted to ask you something." Lois sat down. "I came to ask a favour." "How could you, Mrs. Barclay? I mean, nothing we could do could be a favour to you!" "Yes, it could. I have a friend that wants to come to see me." "Well?" "May he come?" "Why, of course." "But it is a gentleman." "Well," said Lois again, smiling, "we have no objections to gentlemen." "It is a friend whom I have not seen in a very long while; a dear friend; a dear friend of my husband's in years gone by. He has just returned from Europe; and he writes to ask if he may call on his way to Boston and spend Sunday with me." "He shall be very welcome, Mrs. Barclay; and we will try to make him comfortable." "O, comfortable! there is no question of that. But will it not be at all inconvenient?" "Not in the least." "Then he may come?" "Certainly. When does he wish to come?" "This week—Saturday. His name is Dillwyn." "Dillwyn!" Lois repeated. "Dillwyn? I saw a Mr. Dillwyn at Mrs. Wishart's once or twice." "It must be the same. I do not know of two. And he knows Mrs. Wishart. So you remember him? What do you remember about him?" "Not much. I have an impression that he knows a great deal, and has very pleasant manners." "Quite right. That is the man. So he may come? Thank you." Lois took up one of her baskets of apples and carried it into the house, where she deposited it at Mrs. Armadale's feet. "They are beautiful this year, aren't they, mother? Girls, we are going to have a visitor." Charity was brushing up the floor; the broom paused. Madge was sewing; the needle remained drawn out. Both looked at Lois. "A visitor!" came from both pairs of lips. "Yes, indeed. A visitor. A gentleman. And he is coming to stay over Sunday. So, Charry, you must see and have things very special. And so must I." "A gentleman! Who is he? Uncle Tim?" "Not a bit of it. A young, at least a much younger, gentleman; a travelled gentleman; an elegant gentleman. A friend of Mrs. Barclay." "What are we to do with him?" "Nothing. Nothing whatever. We have nothing to do with him, and couldn't do it if we had." "You needn't laugh. We have got to lodge him and feed him." "That's easy. I'll put the white spread on the bed in the spare room; and you may get out your pickles." "Pickles! Is he fond of pickles?" "I don't know!" said Lois, laughing still. "I have an impression he is a man who likes all sorts of nice things." "I hate men who like nice things! But, Lois!—there will be Saturday tea, and Sunday breakfast and dinner and supper, and Monday morning breakfast." "Perhaps Monday dinner." "O, he can't stay to dinner." "Why not?" "It is washing day." "My dear Charry! to such men Monday is just like all other days; and washing is—well, of course, a necessity, but it is done by fairies, or it might be, for all they know about it." "There's five meals anyhow," Charity went on.—"Wouldn't it be a good plan to get uncle Tim to be here?" "What for?" "Why, we haven't a man in the house." "What then?" "Who'll talk to him?" "Mrs. Barclay will take care of that. You, Charity dear, see to your pickles." "I don't know what you mean," said Charity fretfully. "What are we going to have for dinner, Sunday? I could fricassee a pair of chickens." "No, Charity, you couldn't. Sunday is Sunday, just as much with Mr. Dillwyn here." "Dillwyn!" said Madge. "I've heard you speak of him." "Very likely. I saw him once or twice in my New York days." "And he gave you lunch." "Mrs. Wishart and me. Yes. And a good lunch it was. That's why I spoke of pickles, Charity. Do the very best you can." "I cannot do my best, unless I can cook the chickens," said Charity, who all this while stood leaning upon her broom. "I might do it for once." "Where is your leave to do wrong once?" "But this is a particular occasion—you may call it a necessity; and necessity makes an exception." "What is the necessity, Charity?" said Mrs. Armadale, who until now had not spoken. "Why, grandma, you want to treat a stranger well?" "With whatever I have got to give him. But Sunday time isn't mine to give." "But necessary things, grandma?—we may do necessary things?" "What have you got in the house?" "Nothing on earth, except a ham to boil. Cold ham,—that's all. Do you think that's enough?" "It won't hurt him to dine on cold ham," the old lady said complacently. "Why don't you cook your chickens and have them cold too?" Lois asked. "Cold fricassee ain't worth a cent." "Cook them some other way. Roast them,—or— Give them to me, and I'll do them for you! I'll do them, Charity. Then with your nice bread, and apple sauce, and potatoes, and some of my pears and apples, and a pumpkin pie, Charity, and coffee,—we shall do very well. Mr. Dillwyn has made a worse dinner in the course of his wanderings, I'll undertake to maintain." "What shall I have for supper?" Charity asked doubtfully. "Supper comes first." "Shortcake. And some of your cold ham. And stew up some quinces and apples together, Cherry. You don't want anything more,—or better." "Do you think he will understand having a cold dinner, Sunday?" Charity asked. "Men make so much of hot dinners." "What does it signify, my dear, whether he understands it or not?" said Mrs. Armadale. "What we have to do, is what the Lord tells us to do. That is all you need mind." "I mind what folks think, though," said Charity. "Mrs. Barclay's friend especially." "I do not think he will notice it," said simple Mrs. Armadale. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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