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<h3 id="id04408" style="margin-top: 3em">CHAPTER XXXVII.</h3> <h3 id="id04409" style="margin-top: 3em">AN OYSTER SUPPER.</h3> "Hurrah!" cried Madge, but softly—"Now it will go! Mother! what do you think? Guess, Charity! Mr. Dillwyn is going to take our Sunday school celebration on himself; he's going to do it; and we're to have, not a stupid Christmas tree, but Santa Claus and his sled; and he'll be Santa Claus! Won't it be fun?" "Who'll be Santa Claus?" said Charity, looking stupefied. "Mr. Dillwyn. In fact, he'll be Santa Claus and his sled too; he'll do the whole thing. All we have got to do is to dress the children and ourselves, and light up the church." "Will the committees like that?" "Like it? Of course they will! Like it, indeed! Don't you see it will save them all expense? They'll have nothing to do but dress up and light up." "And warm up too, I hope. What makes Mr. Dillwyn do all that? I don't just make out." "I'll tell you," said Madge, shaking her finger at the others impressively. "He's after Mrs. Barclay. So this gives him a chance to come here again, don't you see?" "After Mrs. Barclay?" repeated Charity. "I want to know!" "I don't believe it," said Lois. "She is too old for him." "She's not old," said Madge. "And he is no chicken, my dear. You'll see. It's she he's after. He's coming next time as Santa Claus, that's all. And we have got to make out a list of things—things for presents,—for every individual girl and boy in the Sunday school; there's a job for you. Santa Claus will want a big sled." "Who is going to do what?" inquired Mrs. Armadale here. "I don't understand, you speak so fast, children." "Mother, instead of a Christmas tree, we are going to have Santa Claus and his sled; and the sled is to be heaped full of presents for all the children; and Mr. Dillwyn is going to do it, and get the presents, and be Santa Claus himself." "How, be Santa Claus?" "Why, he will dress up like Santa Claus, and come in with his sled." "Where?" "In the church, grandmother; there is no other place. The other church have their Sunday-school room you know; but we have none." "They are going to have their tree in the church, though," said Charity; "they reckon the Sunday-school room won't be big enough to hold all the folks." "Are they going to turn the church into a playhouse?" Mrs. Armadale asked. "It's for the sake of the church and the school, you know, mother. Santa Claus will come in with his sled and give his presents,—that is all. At least, that is all the play there will be." "What else will there be?" "O, there'll be singing, grandma," said Madge; "hymns and carols and such things, that the children will sing; and speeches and prayers, I suppose." "The church used to be God's house, in my day," said the old lady, with a concerned face, looking up from her knitting, while her fingers went on with their work as busily as ever. "They don't mean it for anything else, grandmother," said Madge. "It's all for the sake of the school." "Maybe they think so," the old lady answered. "What else, mother? what else should it be?" But this she did not answer. "What's Mr. Dillwyn got to do with it?" she asked presently. "He's going to help," said Madge. "It's nothing but kindness. He supposes it is something good to do, and he says he'd like to be useful." "He hain't no idea how," said Mrs. Armadale, "Poor creatur'! You can tell him, it ain't the Lord's work he's doin'." "But we cannot tell him that, mother," said Lois. "If the people want to have this celebration,—and they will,—hadn't we better make it a good one? Is it really a bad thing?" "The devil's ways never help no one to heaven, child, not if they go singin' hymns all the way." "But, mother!" cried Madge. "Mr. Dillwyn ain't a Christian, maybe, but he ain't as bad as that." "I didn't mean Mr. Dillwyn, dear, nor no one else. I meant theatre work." "Santa Claus, mother?" "It's actin', ain't it?" The girls looked at each other. "There's very little of anything like acting about it," Lois said. "'Make straight paths for your feet'!" said Mrs. Armadale, rising to go to bed. "'Make straight paths for your feet,' children. Straight ways is the shortest too. If the chil'en that don't love their teachers wants to go to the yellow church, let 'em go. I'd rather have the Lord in a little school, than Santa Claus in a big one." She was leaving the room, but the girls stayed her and begged to know what they should do in the matter of the lists they were engaged to prepare for Mr. Dillwyn. "You must do what you think best," she said. "Only don't be mixed up with it all any more than you can help, Lois." Why did the name of one child come to her lips and not the other? Did the old lady's affection, or natural acuteness, discern that Mr. Dillwyn was not drawn to Shampuashuh by any particular admiration of his friend Mrs. Barclay? Had she some of that preternatural intuition, plain old country woman though she was, which makes a woman see the invisible and hear the inaudible? which serves as one of the natural means of defence granted to the weaker creatures. I do not know; I do not think she knew; however, the warning was given, and not on that occasion alone. And as Lois heeded all her grandmother's admonitions, although in this case without the most remote perception of this possible ground to them, it followed that Mr. Dillwyn gained less by his motion than he had hoped and anticipated. The scheme went forward, hailed by the whole community belonging to the white church, with the single exception of Mrs. Armadale. It went forward and was brought to a successful termination. I might say, a triumphant termination; only the triumph was not for Mr. Dillwyn, or not in the line where he wanted it. He did his part admirably. A better Santa Claus was never seen, nor a better filled sled. And genial pleasantness, and wise management, and cool generalship, and fun and kindness, were never better represented. So it was all through the consultations and arrangements that preceded the festival, as well as on the grand occasion itself; and Shampuashuh will long remember the time with wonder and exultation; but it was Madge who was Mr. Dillwyn's coadjutor and fellow-counsellor. It was Madge and Mrs. Barclay who helped him in all the work of preparing and ticketing the parcels for the sled; as well as in the prior deliberations as to what the parcels should be. Madge seemed to be the one at hand always to answer a question. Madge went with him to the church; and in general, Lois, though sympathizing and curious, and interested and amused, was very much out of the play. Not so entirely as to make the fact striking; only enough to leave Mr. Dillwyn disappointed and tantalized. I am not going into a description of the festival and the show. The children sang; the minister made a speech to them, not ten consecutive words of which were listened to by three-quarters of the people. The church was filled with men, women, and children; the walls were hung with festoons and wreaths, and emblazoned with mottoes; the anthems and carols followed each other till the last thread of patience in the waiting crowd gave way. And at last came what they were waiting for—Santa Claus, all fur robes and snow and icicles, dragging after him a sledge that looked like a small mountain with the heap of articles piled and packed upon it. And then followed a very busy and delightful hour and a half, during which the business was—the distribution of pleasure. It was such warm work for Santa Claus, that at the time he had no leisure for thinking. Naturally, the thinking came afterwards. He and Mrs. Barclay sat by her fire, resting, after coming home from the church. Dillwyn was very silent and meditative. "You must be glad it is done, Philip," said his friend, watching him, and wishing to get at his thoughts. "I have no particular reason to be glad." "You have done a good thing." "I am not sure if it is a good thing. Mrs. Armadale does not think so." "Mrs. Armadale has rather narrow notions." "I don't know. I should be glad to be sure she is not right. It's discouraging," he added, with half a smile;—"for the first time in my life I set myself to work; and now am not at all certain that I might not just as well have been idle." "Work is a good thing in itself," said Mrs. Barclay, smiling. "Pardon me!—work for an end. Work without an end—or with the end not attained—it is no better than a squirrel in a wheel." "You have given a great deal of pleasure." "To the children! For ought I know, they might have been just as well without it. There will be a reaction to-morrow, very likely; and then they will wish they had gone to see the Christmas tree at the other church." "But they were kept at their own church." "How do I know that is any good? Perhaps the teaching at the other school is the best." "You are tired," said Mrs. Barclay sympathizingly. "Not that. I have done nothing to tire me; but it strikes me it is very difficult to see one's ends in doing good; much more difficult than to see the way to the ends." "You have partly missed your end, haven't you?" said Mrs. Barclay softly. He moved a little restlessly in his chair; then got up and began to walk about the room; then came and sat down again. "What are you going to do next?" she asked in the same way. "Suppose you invite them—the two girls—or her alone—to make you a visit in New York?" "Where?" "At any hotel you prefer; say, the Windsor." "O Philip, Philip!"— "What?—You could have pleasant rooms, and be quite private and comfortable; as much as if you were in your own house." "And what should we cost you?" "You are not thinking of that?" said he. "I will get you a house, if you like it better; but then you would have the trouble of a staff of servants. I think the Windsor would be much the easiest plan." "You are in earnest!" "In earnest!" he repeated in surprise. "Have you ever questioned it? You judge because you never saw me in earnest in anything before in my life." "No, indeed," said Mrs. Barclay. "I always knew it was in you. What you wanted was only an object." "What do you say to my plan?" "I am afraid they would not come. There is the care of the old grandmother; they would not leave everything to their sister alone." "Tempt them with pictures and music, and the opera." "The opera! Philip, she would not go to a theatre, or anything theatrical, for any consideration. They are very strict on that point, and Sunday-keeping, and dancing. Do not speak to her of the opera." "They are not so far wrong. I never saw a decent opera yet in my life." "Philip!" exclaimed Mrs. Barclay in the greatest surprise. "I never heard you say anything like that before." "I suppose it makes a difference," he said thoughtfully, "with what eyes a man looks at a thing. And dancing—I don't think I care to see her dance." "Philip! You are extravagant." "I believe I should be fit to commit murder if I saw her waltzing with anybody." "Jealous already?" said Mrs. Barclay slyly. "If you like.—Do you see her as I see her?" he asked abruptly. There was a tone in the last words which gave Mrs. Barclay's heart a kind of constriction. She answered with gentle sympathy, "I think I do." "I have seen handsomer women," he went on;—"Madge is handsomer, in a way; you may see many women more beautiful, according to the rules; but I never saw any one so lovely!" "I quite agree with you," said Mrs. Barclay. "I never saw anything so lovely!" he repeated. "She is most like—" "A white lily," said Mrs. Barclay. "No, that is not her type. No. As long as the world stands, a rose just open will remain the fairest similitude for a perfect woman. It's commonness cannot hinder that. She is not an unearthly Dendrobium, she is an earthly rose— 'Not too good For human nature's daily food,' —if one could find the right sort of human nature! Just so fresh, unconscious, and fair; with just such a dignity of purity about her. I cannot fancy her at the opera, or dancing." "A sort of unapproachable tea-rose?" said Mrs. Barclay, smiling at him, though her eyes were wistful. "No," said he, "a tea-rose is too fragile. There is nothing of that about her, thank heaven!" "No," said Mrs. Barclay, "there is nothing but sound healthy life about her; mental and bodily; and I agree with you, sweet as ever a human life can be. In the garden or at her books,—hark! that is for supper." For here there came a slight tap on the door. "Supper!" cried Philip. "Yes; it is rather late, and the girls promised me a cup of coffee, after your exertions! But I dare say everybody wants some refreshment by this time. Come!" There was a cheery supper table spread in the dining-room; coffee, indeed, and Stoney Creek oysters, and excellently cooked. Only Charity and Madge were there; Mrs. Armadale had gone to bed, and Lois was attending upon her. Mr. DilIwyn, however, was served assiduously. "I hope you're hungry! You've done a load of good this evening, Mr. Dillwyn," said Charity, as she gave him his coffee. "Thank you. I don't see the connection," said Philip, with an air as different as possible from that he had worn in talking to Mrs. Barclay in the next room. "People ought to be hungry when they have done a great deal of work," Madge explained, as she gave him a plate of oysters. "I do not feel that I have done any work." "O, well! I suppose it was play to you," said Charity, "but that don't make any difference. You've done a load of good. Why, the children will never be able to forget it, nor the grown folks either, as far as that goes; they'll talk of it, and of you, for two years, and more." "I am doubtful about the real worth of fame, Miss Charity, even when it lasts two years." "O, but you've done so much good!" said the lady. "Everybody sees now that the white church can hold her own. Nobody'll think of making disagreeable comparisons, if they have fifty Christmas trees." "Suppose I had helped the yellow church?" Charity looked as if she did not know what he would be at. Just then in came Lois and took her place at the table; and Mr. Dillwyn forgot all about rival churches. "Here's Mr. Dillwyn don't think he's done any good, Lois!" cried her elder sister. "Do cheer him up a little. I think it's a shame to talk so. Why, we've done all we wanted to, and more. There won't a soul go away from our church or school after this, now they see what we can do; and I shouldn't wonder if we got some accessions from the other instead. And here's Mr. Dillwyn says he don't know as he's done any good!" Lois lifted her eyes and met his, and they both smiled. "Miss Lois sees the matter as I do," he said. "These are capital oysters. Where do they come from?" "But, Philip," said Mrs. Barclay, "you have given a great deal of pleasure. Isn't that good?" "Depends—" said he. "Probably it will be followed by a reaction." "And you have kept the church together," added Charity, who was zealous. "By a rope of sand, then, Miss Charity." "At any rate, Mr. Dillwyn, you meant to do good," Lois put in here. "I do not know, Miss Lois. I am afraid I was thinking more of pleasure, myself; and shall experience myself the reaction I spoke of. I think I feel the shadow of it already, as a coming event." "But if we aren't to have any pleasure, because afterwards we feel a little flat,—and of course we do," said Charity; "everybody knows that. But, for instance, if we're not to have green peas in summer, because we can't have 'em any way but dry in winter,—things would be very queer! Queerer than they are; and they're queer enough already." This speech called forth some merriment. "You think even the dry remains of pleasure are better than nothing!" said Philip. "Perhaps you are right." "And to have those, we must have had the green reality," said Lois merrily. "I wonder if there is any way of keeping pleasure green," said Dillwyn. "Vain, vain, Mr. Dillwyn!" said Mrs. Barclay. "Tout lasse, tout casse, tout passe! don't you know? Solomon said, I believe, that all was vanity. And he ought to know." "But he didn't know," said Lois quickly. "Lois!" said Charity—"it's in the Bible." "I know it is in the Bible that he said so," Lois rejoined merrily. "Was he not right, then?" Mr. Dillwyn asked. "Perhaps," Lois answered, now gravely, "if you take simply his view." "What was his view? Won't you explain?" "I suppose you ain't going to set up to be wiser than Solomon, at this time of day," said Charity severely. But that stirred Lois's merriment again. "Explain, Miss Lois!" said Dillwyn. "I am not Solomon, that I should preach," she said. "You just said you knew better than he," said Charity. "How you should know better than the Bible, I don't see. It's news." "Why, Charity, Solomon was not a good man." "How came he to write proverbs, then?" "At least he was not always a good man." "That don't hinder his knowing what was vanity, does it?" "But, Lois!" said Mrs. Barclay. "Go back, and tell us your secret, if you have one. How was Solomon's view mistaken? or what is yours?" "These things were all given for our pleasure, Mrs. Barclay." "But they die—and they go—and they fade," said Mrs. Barclay. "You will not understand me," said Lois; "and yet it is true. If you are Christ's—then, 'all things are yours;… the world, or life, or death, or things present, or things to come: all are yours.' There is no loss, but there comes more gain." "I wish you'd let Mr. Dillwyn have some more oysters," said Charity; "and, Madge, do hand along Mrs. Barclay's cup. You mustn't talk, if you can't eat at the same time. Lois ain't Solomon yet, if she does preach. You shut up, Lois, and mind your supper. My rule is, to enjoy things as I go along; and just now, it's oysters." "I will say for Lois," here put in Mrs. Barclay, "that she does exemplify her own principles. I never knew anybody with such a spring of perpetual enjoyment." "She ain't happier than the rest of us," said the elder sister. "Not so happy as grandmother," added Madge. "At least, grandmother would say so. I don't know." <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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