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Nobody

<h3 id="id04771" style="margin-top: 3em">CHAPTER XL.</h3> <h3 id="id04772" style="margin-top: 3em">ATTENTIONS.</h3> It was days before Lois went down-stairs. She seemed indeed to be in no hurry. Her room was luxuriously comfortable; Madge tended her there, and Mrs. Wishart visited her; and Lois sat in her great easy-chair, and rested, and devoured the delicate meals that were brought her; and the colour began gently to come back to her face, in the imperceptible fashion in which a white Van Thol tulip takes on its hues of crimson. She began to read a little; but she did not care to go down-stairs. Madge told her everything that went on; who came, and what was said by one and another. Mr. Dillwyn's name was of very frequent occurrence. "He's a real nice man!" said Madge enthusiastically. "Madge, Madge, Madge!—you mustn't speak so," said Lois. "You must not say 'real nice.'" "I don't, down-stairs," said Madge, laughing. "It was only to you. It is more expressive, Lois, sometimes, to speak wrong than to speak right." "Do not speak so expressively, then." "But I must, when I am speaking of Mr. Dillwyn. I never saw anybody so nice. He is teaching me to play chess, Lois, and it is such fun." "It seems to me he comes here very often." "He does; he is an old friend of Mrs. Wishart's, and she is as glad to see him as I am." "Don't be too glad, Madge. I do not like to hear you speak so." "Why not?" "It was one of the reasons why I did not want to accept Mrs. Barclay's invitation last winter, that I knew he would be visiting her constantly. I did not expect to see him here much." Lois looked grave. "What harm in seeing him, Lois? why shouldn't one have the pleasure? For it is a pleasure; his talk is so bright, and his manner is so very kind and graceful; and he is so kind. He is going to take me to drive again." "You go to drive with Mrs. Wishart. Isn't that enough?" "It isn't a quarter so pleasant," Madge said, laughing again. "Mr. Dillwyn talks, something one likes to hear talked. Mrs. Wishart tells me about old families, and where they used to live, and where they live now; what do I care about old New York families! And Mr. Dillwyn lets me talk. I never have anything whatever to say to Mrs. Wishart; she does it all." "I would rather have you go driving with her, though." "Why, Lois? That's ridiculous. I like to go with Mr. Dillwyn." "Don't like it too well." "How can I like it too well?" "So much that you would miss it, when you do not have it any longer." "Miss it!" said Madge, half angrily. "I might miss it, as I might miss any pleasant thing; but I could stand that. I'm not a chicken just out of the egg. I have missed things before now, and it hasn't killed me." "Don't think I am foolish, Madge. It isn't a question of how much you can stand. But the men like—like this one—are so pleasant with their graceful, smooth ways, that country girls like you and me might easily be drawn on, without knowing it, further than they want to go." "He does not want to draw anybody on!" said Madge indignantly. "That's the very thing. You might think—or I might think—that pleasant manner means something; and it don't mean anything." "I don't want it to 'mean anything,' as you say; but what has our being country girls to do with it?" "We are not accustomed to that sort of society, and so it makes, I suppose, more impression. And what might mean something to others, would not to us. From such men, I mean." "What do you mean by 'such men'?" asked Madge, who was getting rather excited. "Rich—fashionable—belonging to the great world, and having the ways of it. You know what Mr. Dillwyn is like. It is not what we have in Shainpuashuh." "But, Lois!—what are you talking about? I don't care a red cent for all this, but I want to understand. You said such a manner would mean nothing to us." "Yes." "Why not to us, as well as anybody else?" "Because we are nobodies, Madge." "What do you mean?" said the other hotly. "Just that. It is quite true. You are nobody, and I am nobody. You see, if we were somebody, it would be different." "If you think—I'll tell you what, Lois! I think you are fit to be the wife of the best man that lives and breathes." "I think so myself," Lois returned quietly. "And I am." "I think you are, Madge. But that makes no difference. My dear, we are nobody." "How?"—impatiently. "Isn't our family as respectable as anybody's? Haven't we had governors and governors, of Massachusetts and Connecticut both; and judges and ministers, ever so many, among our ancestors? And didn't a half-dozen of 'em, or more, come over in the 'Mayflower'?" "Yes, Madge; all true; and I am as glad of it as you are." "Then you talk nonsense!" "No, I don't," said Lois, sighing a little. "I have seen a little more of the world than you have, you know, dear Madge; not very much, but a little more than you; and I know what I am talking about. We are unknown, we are not rich, we have none of what they call 'connections.' So you see I do not want you to like too much a person who, beyond civility, and kindness perhaps, would never think of liking you." "I don't want him to, that's one thing," said Madge. "But if all that is true, he is meaner than I think him; that's what I've got to say. And it is a mean state of society where all that can be true." "I suppose it is human nature," said Lois. "It's awfully mean human nature!" "I guess there is not much true nobleness but where the religion of Christ comes in. If you have got that, Madge, be content and thankful." "But nobody likes to be unjustly depreciated." "Isn't that pride?" "One must have some pride. I can't make religion everything, Lois. I was a woman before I was a Christian." "If you want to be a happy woman, you will let religion be everything." "But, Lois!—wouldn't you like to be rich, and have pretty things about you?" "Don't ask me," said Lois, smiling. "I am a woman too, and dearly fond of pretty things. But, Madge, there is something else I love better," she added, with a sudden sweet gravity; "and that is, the will of my God. I would rather have what he chooses to give me. Really and truly; I would rather have that." The conversation therewith was at an end. In the evening of that same day Lois left her seclusion and came down-stairs for the first time. She was languid enough yet to be obliged to move slowly, and her cheeks had not got back their full colour, and were thinner than they used to be; otherwise she looked well, and Mrs. Wishart contemplated her with great satisfaction. Somewhat to Lois's vexation, or she thought so, they found Mr. DilIwyn down-stairs also. Lois had the invalid's place of honour, in a corner of the sofa, with a little table drawn up for her separate tea; and Madge and Mr. Dillwyn made toast for her at the fire. The fire gave its warm light, the lamps glittered with a more brilliant illumination; ruddy hues of tapestry and white gleams from silver and glass filled the room, with lights and shadows everywhere, that contented the eye and the imagination too, with suggestions of luxury and plenty and sheltered comfort. Lois felt the shelter and the comfort and the pleasure, with that enhanced intensity which belongs to one's sensations in a state of convalescence, and in her case was heightened by previous experiences. Nestled among cushions in her corner, she watched everything and took the effect of every detail; tasted every flavour of the situation; but all with a thoughtful, wordless gravity; she hardly spoke at all. After tea, Mr. Dillwyn and Madge sat down to the chess-board. And then Lois's attention fastened upon them. Madge had drawn the little table that held the chessmen into very close proximity to the sofa, so that she was just at Lois's hand; but then her whole mind was bent upon the game, and Lois could study her as she pleased. She did study Madge. She admired her sister's great beauty; the glossy black hair, the delicate skin, the excellent features, the pretty figure. Madge was very handsome, there was no doubt; Mr. Dillwyn would not have far to look, Lois thought, to find one handsomer than herself was. There was a frank, fine expression of face, too; and manners thoroughly good. They lacked some of the quietness of long usage, Lois thought; a quick look or movement now and then, or her eager eyes, or an abrupt tone of voice, did in some measure betray the country girl, to whom everything was novel and interesting; and distinguished her from the half blasé, wholly indifferent air of other people. She will learn that quietness soon enough, thought Lois; and then, nothing could be left to desire in Madge. The quietness had always been a characteristic of Lois herself; partly difference of temperament, partly the sweeter poise of Lois's mind, had made this difference between the sisters; and now of course Lois had had more experience of people and the world. But it was not in her the result of experience, this fair, unshaken balance of mind and manner which was always a charm in her. However, this by the way; the girl herself was drawing no comparisons, except so far as to judge her sister handsomer than herself. From Madge her eye strayed to Mr. Dillwyn, and studied him. She was lying back a little in shadow, and could do it safely. He was teaching Madge the game; and Lois could not but acknowledge and admire in him the finished manner she missed in her sister. Yes, she could not help admiring it. The gentle, graceful, easy way, in which he directed her, gave reproofs and suggestions about the game, and at the same time kept up a running conversation with Mrs. Wishart; letting not one thing interfere with another, nor failing for a moment to attend to both ladies. There was a quiet perfection about the whole home picture; it remained in Lois's memory for ever. Mrs. Wishart sat on an opposite sofa knitting; not a long blue stocking, like her dear grandmother, but a web of wonderful hues, thick and soft, and various as the feathers on a peacock's neck. It harmonized with all the rest of the room, where warmth and colour and a certain fulness of detail gave the impression of long-established easy living. The contrast was very strong with Lois's own life surroundings; she compared and contrasted, and was not quite sure how much of this sort of thing might be good for her. However, for the present here she was, and she enjoyed it. Then she queried if Mr. Dillwyn were enjoying it. She noticed the hand which he had run through the locks of his hair, resting his head on the hand. It was well formed, well kept; in that nothing remarkable; but there was a certain character of energy in the fingers which did not look like the hand of a lazy man. How could he spend his life so in doing nothing? She did not fancy that he cared much about the game, or much about the talk; what was he there for, so often? Did he, possibly, care about Madge? Lois's thoughts came back to the conversation. "Mrs. Wishart, what is to be done with the poor of our city?" Mr. Dillwyn was saying. "I don't know! I wish something could be done with them, to keep them from coming to the house. My cook turns away a dozen a day, some days." "Those are not the poor I mean." "They are poor enough." "They are to a large extent pretenders. I mean the masses of solid poverty which fill certain parts of the city—and not small parts either. It is no pretence there." "I thought there were societies enough to look after them. I know I pay my share to keep up the societies. What are they doing?" "Something, I suppose. As if a man should carry a watering-pot to Vesuvius." "What in the world has turned your attention that way? I pay my subscriptions, and then I discharge the matter from my mind. It is the business of the societies. What has set you to thinking about it?" "Something I have seen, and something I have heard." "What have you heard? Are you studying political economy? I did not know you studied anything but art criticism." "What do you do with your poor at Shampuashuh, Miss Madge?" "We do not have any poor. That is, hardly any. There is nobody in the poorhouse. A few—perhaps half a dozen—people, cannot quite support themselves. Check to your queen, Mr. Dillwyn." "What do you do with them?" "O, take care of them. It's very simple. They understand that whenever they are in absolute need of it, they can go to the store and get what they want." "At whose expense?" "O, there is a fund there for them. Some of the better-off people take care of that." "I should think that would be quite too simple," said Mrs. Wishart, "and extremely liable to abuse." "It is never abused, though. Some of the people, those poor ones, will come as near as possible to starving before they will apply for anything." Mrs. Wishart remarked that Shampuashuh was altogether unlike all other places she ever had heard of. "Things at Shampuashuh are as they ought to be," Mr. Dillwyn said. "Now, Mr. Dillwyn," cried Madge, "I will forgive you for taking my queen, if you will answer a question for me. What is 'art criticism'?" "Why, Madge, you know!" said Lois from her sofa corner. "I do not admire ignorance so much as to pretend to it," Madge rejoined. "What is art criticism, Mr. Dillwyn?" "What is art?" "That is what I do not know!" said Madge, laughing. "I understand criticism. It is the art that bothers me. I only know that it is something as far from nature as possible." "O Madge, Madge!" said Lois again; and Mr. Dillwyn laughed a little. "On the contrary, Miss Madge. Your learning must be unlearnt. Art is really so near to nature—Check!—that it consists in giving again the facts and effects of nature in human language." "Human language? That is, letters and words?" "Those are the symbols of one language." "What other is there?" "Music—painting—architecture—— I am afraid, Miss Madge, that is check-mate?" "You said you had seen and heard something, Mr. Dillwyn," Mrs. Wishart now began. "Do tell us what. I have neither seen nor heard anything in an age." Mr. Dillwyn was setting the chessmen again. "What I saw," he said, "was a silk necktie—or scarf—such as we wear. What I heard, was the price paid for making it." "Was there anything remarkable about the scarf?" "Nothing whatever; except the aforesaid price." "What was the price paid for making it?" "Two cents." "Who told you?" "A friend of mine, who took me in on purpose that I might see and hear, what I have reported." "Two cents, did you say? But that's no price!" "So I thought." "How many could a woman make in a day, Madge, of those silk scarfs?" "I don't know—I suppose, a dozen." "A dozen, I was told, is a fair day's work," Mr. Dillwyn said. "They do more, but it is by working on into the night." "Good patience! Twenty-five cents for a hard day's work!" said Mrs. Wishart. "A dollar and a half a week! Where is bread to come from, to keep them alive to do it?" "Better die at once, I should say," echoed Madge. "Many a one would be glad of that alternative, I doubt not," Mr. Dillwyn went on. "But there is perhaps an old mother to be taken care of, or a child or two to feed and bring up." "Don't talk about it!" said Mrs. Wishart. "It makes me feel blue." "I must risk that. I want you to think about it. Where is help to come from? These are the people I was thinking of, when I asked you what was to be done with our poor." "I don't know why you ask me. I can do nothing. It is not my business." "Will it do to assume that as quite certain?" "Why yes. What can I do with a set of master tailors?" "You can cry down the cheap shops; and say why." "Are the dear shops any better?" Mr. Dillwyn laughed. "Presumably! But talking—even your talking—will not do all. I want you to think about it." "I don't want to think about it," answered the lady. "It's beyond me. Poverty is people's own fault. Industrious and honest people can always get along." "If sickness does not set in, or some father, or husband, or son does not take to bad ways." "How can I help all that?" asked the lady somewhat pettishly. "I never knew you were in the benevolent and reformatory line before, Mr. Dillwyn. What has put all this in your head?" "Those scarfs, for one thing. Another thing was a visit I had lately occasion to make. It was near midday. I found a room as bare as a room could be, of all that we call comfort; in the floor a small pine table set with three plates, bread, cold herrings, and cheese. That was the dinner for a little boy, whom I found setting the table, and his father and mother. The parents work in a factory hard by, from early to late; they have had sickness in the family this autumn, and are too poor to afford a fire to eat their dinner by, or to make it warm, so the other child, a little girl, has been sent away for the winter. It was frostily cold the day I was there. The boy goes to school in the afternoon, and comes home in time to light up a fire for his father and mother to warm themselves by at evening. And the mother has all her housework to do after she comes home." "That's better than the other case," said Mrs. Wishart. "But what could be done, Mr. Dillwyn?" said Lois from her corner. "It seems as if something was wrong. But how could it be mended?" "I want Mrs. Wishart to consider of that." "I can't consider it!" said the lady. "I suppose it is intended that there should be poor people always, to give us something to do." "Then let us do it." "How?" "I am not certain; but I make a suggestion. Suppose all the ladies of this city devoted their diamonds to this purpose. Then any number of dwelling-houses could be put up; separate, but so arranged as to be warmed by steam from a general centre, at a merely nominal cost for each one; well ventilated and comfortable; so putting an end to the enormity of tenement houses. Then a commission might be established to look after the rights of the poor; to see that they got proper wages, were not cheated, and that all should have work who wanted it. So much might be done." "With no end of money." "I proposed to take the diamonds of the city, you know." "And why just the diamonds?" inquired Mrs. Wishart. "Why don't you speak of some of the indulgences of the men? Take the horses—or the wines—" "I am speaking to a lady," said Dillwyn, smiling. "When I have a man to apply to, I will make my application accordingly." "Ask him for his tobacco?" said Mrs. Wishart. "Certainly for his tobacco. There is as much money spent in this city for tobacco as there is for bread." Madge exclaimed in incredulous astonishment; and Lois asked if the diamonds of the city would amount to very much. "Yes, Miss Lois. American ladies are very fond of diamonds; and it is a common thing for one of them to have from ten thousand to twenty thousand or thirty thousand dollars' worth of them as part of the adornment of her pretty person at one time." "Twenty thousand dollars' worth of diamonds on at once!" cried Madge. "I call that wicked!" "Why?" asked Mr. Dillwyn, smiling. "There's no wickedness in it," said Mrs. Wishart. "How should it be wicked? You put on a flower; and another, who can afford it, puts on a diamond. What's the difference?" "My flower does not cost anybody anything," said Madge. "What do my diamonds cost anybody?" returned Mrs. Wishart. Madge was silent, though not because she had nothing to say; and at this precise moment the door opened, and visitors were ushered in. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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