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<h3 id="id04124" style="margin-top: 3em">CHAPTER XXXV.</h3> <h3 id="id04125" style="margin-top: 3em">OPINIONS.</h3> Mr. Dillwyn rejoined Mrs. Barclay in her parlour, but he was a less entertaining man this evening than he had been during the former part of his visit. Mrs. Barclay saw it, and smiled, and sighed. Even at the tea-table things were not like last evening. Philip entered into no discussions, made no special attempts to amuse anybody, attended to his duties in the unconscious way of one with whom they have become second nature, and talked only so much as politeness required. Mrs. Barclay looked at Lois, but could tell nothing from the grave face there. Always on Sunday evenings it had a very fair, sweet gravity. The rest of the time, after tea, was spent in making music. It had become a usual Sunday evening entertainment. Mrs. Barclay played, and she and the two girls sang. It was all sacred music, of course, varied exceedingly, however, by the various tastes of the family. Old hymn and psaulm tunes were what Mrs. Armadale liked; and those generally came first; then the girls had more modern pieces, and with those Mrs. Barclay interwove an anthem or a chant now and then. Madge and Lois both had good voices and good natural taste and feeling; and Mrs. Barclay's instructions had been eagerly received. This evening Philip joined the choir; and Charity declared it was "better'n they could do in the Episcopal church." "Do they have the best singing in the Episcopal church?" asked Philip absently. "Well, they set up to; and you see they give more time to it. Our folks won't practise." "I don't care how folk's voices sound, if their hearts are in it," said Mrs. Armadale. "But you may notice, voices sound better if hearts are in it," said Dillwyn. "That made a large part of the beauty of our concert this evening." "Was your'n in it?" asked Mrs. Armadale abruptly. "My heart? In the words? I am afraid I must own it was not, in the way you mean, madam. If I must answer truth." "Don't you always speak truth?" "I believe I may say, that is my habit," Philip answered, smiling. "Then, do you think you ought to sing sech words, if you don't mean 'em?" The question looks abrupt, on paper. It did not sound equally so. Something of earnest wistfulness there was in the old lady's look and manner, a touch of solemnity in her voice, which made the gentleman forgive her on the spot. He sat down beside her. "Would you bid me not join in singing such words, then?" "It's not my place to bid or forbid. But you can judge for yourself. Do you set much valley on professions that mean nothing?" "I made no professions." "Ain't it professin', when you say what the hymns say?" "If you will forgive me—I did not say it," responded Philip. "Ain't singin' sayin'?" "They are generally looked upon as essentially different. People are never held responsible for the things they sing,—out of church," added Philip, smiling. "Is it otherwise with church singing?" "What's church singin' good for, then?" "I thought it was to put the minds of the worshippers in a right state;—to sober and harmonize them." "I thought it was to tell the Lord how we felt," said the old lady. "That is a new view of it, certainly." "I thought the words was to tell one how we had ought to feel!" said Charity. "There wouldn't more'n one in a dozen sing, mother, if you had your way; and then we should have nice music!" "I think it would be nice music," said the old lady, with a kind of sober tremble in her voice, which somehow touched Philip. The ring of truth was there, at any rate. "Could the world be managed," he said, with very gentle deference; "could the world be managed on such principles of truth and purity? Must we not take people as we find them?" "Those are the Lord's principles," said Mrs. Armadale. "Yes, but you know how the world is. Must we not, a little, as I said, take people as we find them?" "The Lord won't do that," said the old lady. "He will either make them better, or he will cast them away." "But we? We must deal with things as they are." "How are you goin' to deal with 'em?" "In charity and kindness; having patience with what is wrong, and believing that the good God will have more patience yet." "You had better believe what he tells you," the old lady answered, somewhat sternly. "But grandmother," Lois put in here, "he does have patience." "With whom, child?" Lois did not answer; she only quoted softly the words— "'Plenteous in mercy, long-suffering, abundant in goodness and truth.'" "Ay, child; but you know what happens to the houses built on the sand." The party broke up here, Mrs. Barclay bidding good-night and leaving the dining-room, whither they had all gone to eat apples. As Philip parted from Lois he remarked,— "I did not understand the allusion in Mrs. Armadale's last words." Lois's look fascinated him. It was just a moment's look, pausing before turning away; swift with eagerness and intent with some hidden feeling which he hardly comprehended. She only said,— "Look in the end of the seventh chapter of Matthew." "Well," said Mrs. Barclay, when the door was closed, "what do you think of our progress?" "Progress?" repeated Philip vacantly. "I beg your pardon!"— "In music, man!" said Mrs. Barclay, laughing. "O!—Admirable. Have you a Bible here?" "A Bible?" Mrs. Barclay echoed. "Yes—there is a Bible in every room, I believe. Yonder, on that table. Why? what do you want of one now?" "I have had a sermon preached to me, and I want to find the text." Mrs. Barclay asked no further, but she watched him, as with the book in his hand he sat down before the fire and studied the open page. Studied with grave thoughtfulness, drawing his brows a little, and pondering with eyes fixed on the words for some length of time. Then he bade her good-night with a smile, and went away. He went away in good earnest next day; but as a subject of conversation in the village his visit lasted a good while. That same evening Mrs. Marx came to make a call, just before supper. "How much pork are you goin' to want this year, mother?" she began, with the business of one who had been stirring her energies with a walk in a cool wind. "I suppose, about as usual," said Mrs. Armadale. "I forget how much that is; I can't keep it in my head from one year to another. Besides, I didn't know but you'd want an extra quantity, if your family was goin' to be larger." "It is not going to be larger, as I know." "If my pork ain't, I shall come short home. It beats me! I've fed 'em just the same as usual,—and the corn's every bit as good as usual, never better; good big fat yellow ears, that had ought to make a porker's heart dance for joy; and I should think they were sufferin' from continual lowness o' spirits, to judge by the way they don't get fat. They're growing real long-legged and slab-sided—just the way I hate to see pigs look. I don' know what's the matter with 'em." "Where do you keep 'em?" "Under the barn—just where they always be. Well, you've had a visitor?" "Mrs. Barclay has." "I understood 'twas her company; but you saw him?" "We saw him as much as she did," put in Charity. "What's he like?" Nobody answered. "Is he one of your high-flyers?" "I don't know what you call high-flyers, aunt Anne," said Madge. "He was a gentleman." "What do you mean by that? I saw some 'gentlemen' last summer at Appledore—and I don't want to see no more. Was he that kind?" "I wasn't there," said Madge, "and can't tell. I should have no objection to see a good many of them, if he is." "I heard he went to Sunday School with Lois, through the rain." "How did you know?" said Lois. "Why shouldn't I know?" "I thought nobody was out but me." "Do you think folks will see an umbrella walkin' up street in the rain, and not look to see if there's somebody under it?" "I shouldn't," said Lois. "When should an umbrella be out walking, but in the rain?" "Well, go along. What sort of a man is he? and what brings him to Shampuashuh?" "He came to see Mrs. Barclay," said Madge. "He's a sort of man you are willin' to take trouble for," said Charity. "Real nice, and considerate; and to hear him talk, it is as good as a book; and he's awfully polite. You should have seen him marching in here with Lois's wet cloak, out to the kitchen with it, and hangin' it up. So to pay, I turned round and hung up his'n. One good turn deserves another, I told him. But at first, I declare, I thought I couldn't keep from laughin'." Mrs. Marx laughed a little here. "I know the sort," she said. "Wears kid gloves always and a little line of hair over his upper lip, and is lazy like. I would lose all my patience to have one o' them round for long, smokin' a cigar every other thing, and poisonin' all the air for half a mile." "I think he is sort o' lazy," said Charity. "He don't smoke," said Lois. "Yes he does," said Madge. "I found an end of cigar just down by the front steps, when I was sweeping." "I don't think he's a lazy man, either," said Lois. "That slow, easy way does not mean laziness." "What does it mean?" inquired Mrs. Marx sharply. "It is nothing to us what it means," said Mrs. Armadale, speaking for the first time. "We have no concern with this man. He came to see Mrs. Barclay, his friend, and I suppose he'll never come again." "Why shouldn't he come again, mother?" said Charity. "If she's his friend, he might want to see her more than once, seems to me. And what's more, he is coming again. I heard him askin' her if he might; and then Mrs. Barclay asked me if it would be convenient, and I said it would, of course. He said he would be comin' back from Boston in a few weeks, and he would like to stop again as he went by. And do you know I think she coloured. It was only a little, but she ain't a woman to blush much; and I believe she knows why he wants to come, as well as he does." "Nonsense, Charity!" said Madge incredulously. "Then half the world are busy with nonsense, that's all I have to say; and I'm glad for my part I've somethin' better to do." "Do you say he's comin' again?" inquired Mrs. Armadale. "He says so, mother." "What for?" "Why, to visit his friend Mrs. Barclay, of course." "She is our friend," said the old lady; "and her friends must be entertained; but he is not our friend, children. We ain't of his kind, and he ain't of our'n." "What's the matter? Ain't he good?" asked Mrs. Marx. "He's very good!" said Madge. "Not in grandmother's way," said Lois softly. "Mother," said Mrs. Marx, "you can't have everybody cut out on your pattern." Mrs. Armadale made no answer. "And there ain't enough o' your pattern to keep one from bein' lonesome, if we're to have nothin' to do with the rest." "Better so," said the old lady. "I don't want no company for my chil'en that won't help 'em on the road to heaven. They'll have company enough when they get there." "And how are you goin' to be the salt o' the earth, then, if you won't touch nothin'?" "How, if the salt loses its saltness, daughter?" "Well, mother, it always puzzles me, that there's so much to be said on both sides of things! I'll go home and think about it. Then he ain't one o' your Appledore friends, Lois?" "Not one of my friends at all, aunt Anne." So the talk ended. There was a little private extension of it that evening, when Lois and Madge went up to bed. "It's a pity grandma is so sharp about things," the latter remarked to her sister. "Things?" said Lois. "What things?" "Well—people. Don't you like that Mr. Dillwyn?" "Yes." "So do I. And she don't want us to have anything to do with him." "But she is right," said Lois. "He is not a Christian." "But one can't live only with Christians in this world. And, Lois, I'll tell you what I think; he is a great deal pleasanter than a good many Christians I know." "He is good company," said Lois. "He has seen a great deal and read a great deal, and he knows how to talk. That makes him pleasant." "Well, he's a great deal more improving to be with than anybody I know in Shampuashuh." "In one way." "Why shouldn't one have the pleasure, then, and the good, if he isn't a Christian?" "The pleasanter he is, I suppose the more danger, grandmother would think." "Danger of what?" "You know, Madge, it is not my say-so, nor even grandmother's. You know, Christians are not of the world." "But they must see the world." "If we were to see much of that sort of person, we might get to wishing to see them always." "By 'that sort of person' I suppose you mean Mr. Dillwyn? Well, I have got so far as that already. I wish I could see such people always." "I am sorry." "Why? You ought to be glad at my good taste." "I am sorry, because you are wishing for what you cannot have." "How do you know that? You cannot tell what may happen." "Madge, a man like Mr. Dillwyn would never think of a girl like you or me." "I am not wanting him to think of me," said Madge rather hotly. "But, Lois, if you come to that, I think I—and you—are fit for anybody." "Yes," said Lois quietly. "I think so too. But they do not take the same view. And if they did, Madge, we could not think of them." "Why not?—if they did. I do not hold quite such extreme rules as you and grandmother do." "And the Bible."— "Other people do not think the Bible is so strict." "You know what the words are, Madge." "I don't know what the words mean." Lois was brushing out the thick masses of her beautiful hair, which floated about over her in waves of golden brown; and Madge had been thinking, privately, that if anybody could have just that view of Lois, his scruples—if he had any—would certainly give way. Now, at her sister's last words, however, Lois laid down her brush, and, coming up, laid hold of Madge by the shoulders and gave her a gentle shaking. It ended in something of a romp, but Lois declared Madge should never say such a thing again. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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