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<h3 id="id05458" style="margin-top: 3em">CHAPTER XLVI.</h3> <h3 id="id05459" style="margin-top: 3em">OFF AND ON.</h3> Certinaly Madge had not said too much, and the scene was like witchery. The sun was down, but the moon was up, near full, and giving a white illumination to the white world. The snow had fallen thick, and neither sun nor wind had as yet made any impression upon it; the covering of the road was thick and well beaten, and on every exposed level surface lay the white treasure piled up. Every twig and branch of the trees still held its burden; every roof was blanketed; there had been no time yet for smoke and soil to come upon the pure surfaces; and on all this fell the pale moon rays, casting pale shadows and making the world somehow look like something better than itself. The horses Mr. Dillwyn drove were fresh enough yet, and stepped off gaily, their bells clinking musically; and other bells passed them and sounded in the nearer and further distance. Moreover, under this illumination all less agreeable features of the landscape were covered up. It was a pure region of enchanted beauty to Lois's sense, through which they drove; and she felt as if a spell had come upon her too, and this bit of experience were no more real than the rest of it. It was exquisitely and intensely pleasant; a bit of life quite apart and by itself, and never to be repeated, therefore to be enjoyed all she could while she had it. Which thought was not enjoyment. Was she not foolish to have come? "Are you comfortable?" suddenly Mr. Dillwyn's voice came in upon these musings. "O, perfectly!" Lois answered, with an accentuation between delight and desperation. And then he was silent again; and she went on with her musings, just that word having given them a spur. How exquisite the scene was! how exquisite everything, in fact. All the uncomelinesses of a city suburb were veiled under the moonlight; nothing but beauty could be seen; here were points that caught the light, and there were shadows that simply served to set off the silvery whiteness of the moon and the snow; what it was that made those points of reflection, or what lay beneath those soft shadows, did not appear. The road was beaten smooth, the going was capital, the horses trotted swiftly and steadily, Lois was wrapped in soft furs, and the air which she was breathing was merely cold enough to exhilarate. It was perfection. In truth it was so perfect, and Lois enjoyed it so keenly, that she began to be vexed at herself for her enjoyment. Why should Mr. Dillwyn have got her out? all this luxury of sense and feeling was not good for her; did not belong to her; and why should she taste at all a delight which must be so fleeting? And what had possessed him to tie her hood strings for her, and to do it in that leisurely way, as if he liked it? And why did she like it? Lois scolded and chid herself. If he were going to marry Madge ever so much, that gave him no right to take such a liberty; and she would not allow him such liberties; she would keep him at a distance. But was she not going to a distance herself? There would be no need. The moonlight was troubled, though by no cloud on the ethereal firmament; and Lois was not quite so conscious as she had been of the beauty around her. The silence lasted a good while; she wondered if her neighbour's thoughts were busy with the lady he had just set down, to such a degree that he forgot to attend to his new companion? Nothing could be more wide of the truth; but that is the way we judge and misjudge one another. She was almost hurt at his silence, before he spoke again. The fact is, that the general axiom that a man can always put in words anything of which his head and heart are both full, seems to have one exception. Mr. Dillwyn was a good talker, always, on matters he cared about, and matters he did not care about; and yet now, when he had secured, one would say, the most favourable circumstances for a hearing, and opportunity to speak as he liked, he did not know how to speak. By and by his hand came again round Lois to see that the fur robes were well tucked in about her. Something in the action made her impatient. "I am very well," she said. "You must be taken care of, you know," he said; to Lois's fancy he said it as if there were some one to whom he must be responsible for her. "I am not used to being taken care of," she said. "I have taken care of myself, generally." "Like it better?" "I don't know. I suppose really no woman can say she likes it better. But I am accustomed to it." "Don't you think I could take care of you?" "You are taking capital care of me," said Lois, not knowing exactly how to understand him. "Just now it is your business; and I should say you were doing it well." "What would you say if I told you that I wanted to take care of you all your life?" He had let the horses come to a walk; the sleigh-bells only tinkled softly; no other bells were near. Which way they had gone Lois had not considered; but evidently it had not been towards the busy and noisy haunts of men. However, she did not think of this till a few minutes afterwards; she thought now that Mr. Dillwyn's words regarded Madge's sister, and her feeling of independence became rigid. "A kind wish,—but impracticable," she answered. "Why?" "I shall be too far off. That is one thing." "Where are you going to be?—Forgive me for asking!" "O yes. I shall be keeping school in New England somewhere, I suppose; first of all, at Esterbrooke." "But if I had the care of you—you would not be there?" "That is my place," said Lois shortly. "Do you mean it is the place you prefer?" "There is no question of preference. You know, one's work is what is given one; and the thing given me to do, at present, seems to be there. Of course I do prefer what my work is." Still the horses were smoothly walking. Mr. Dillwyri was silent a moment. "You did not understand what I said to you just now. It was earnest." "I did not think it was anything else," said Lois, beginning to wish herself at home. "I am sure you meant it, and I know you are very good; but—you cannot take care of me." "Give me your reasons," he said, restraining the horses, which would have set off upon a quicker pace again. "Why, Mr. Dillwyn, it is self-evident. You would not respect me if I allowed you to do it; and I should not respect myself. We New England folks, if we are nothing else, we are independent." "So?—" said Mr. Dillwyn, in a puzzled manner, but then a light broke upon him, and he half laughed.—"I never heard that the most rampant spirit of independence made a wife object to being dependent on her husband." "A wife?" said Lois, not knowing whether she heard aright. "Yes," said he. "How else? How could it be else? Lois, may I have you, to take care of the rest of my life, as my very own?" The short, smothered breath with which this was spoken was intelligible enough, and put Lois in the rarest confusion. "Me?—" was all she could ejaculate. "You, certainly. I never saw any other woman in my life to whom I wished to put the question. You are the whole world to me, as far as happiness is concerned." "I?—" said Lois again. "I thought—" "What?" She hesitated, and he urged the question. Lois was not enough mistress of herself to choose her words. "I thought—it was somebody else." "Did you?—Who did you think it was?" "O, don't ask me!" "But I think I must ask you. It concerns me to know how, and towards whom, my manner can have misled you. Who was it?" "It was not—your manner—exactly," said Lois, in terrible embarrassment. "I was mistaken." "How could you be mistaken?" "I never dreamed—the thought never entered my head—that—it was I." "I must have been in fault then," said he gently; "I did not want to wear my heart on my sleeve, and so perhaps I guarded myself too well. I did not wish to know anybody else's opinion of my suit till I had heard yours. What is yours, Lois?—what have you to say to me?" He checked the horses again, and sat with his face inclined towards her, waiting eagerly, Lois knew. And then, what a sharp pain shot through her! All that had gone before was nothing to this; and for a moment the girl's whole nature writhed under the torture. She knew her own mind now; she was fully conscious that the best gift of earth was within her grasp; her hands were stretched longingly towards it, her whole heart bounded towards it; to let it go was to fall into an abyss from which light and hope seemed banished; there was everything in all the world to bid her give the answer that was waited for; only duty bade her not give it. Loyalty to God said no, and her promise bound her tongue. For that minute that she was silent Lois wrestled with mortal pain. There are martyrs and martyrdoms now-a-days, that the world takes no account of; nevertheless they have bled to death for the cause, and have been true to their King at the cost of all they had in the world. Mr. Dillwyn was waiting, and the fight had to be short, though well she knew the pain would not be. She must speak. She did it huskily, and with a fierce effort. It seemed as if the words would not come out. "I have nothing to say, Mr. Dillwyn,—that you would like to hear," she added, remembering that her first utterance was rather indefinite. "You do not mean that?" he said hurriedly. "Indeed I do." "I know," he said, "you never say anything you do not mean. But how do you mean it, Lois? Not to deny me? You do not mean that?" "Yes," she said. And it was like putting a knife through her own heart when she said it. O, if she were at home! O, if she had never come on this drive! O, if she had never left Esterbrooke and those sick-beds!—But here she was, and must stand the question; and Mr. Dillwyn had not done. "What reason do you give me?"—and his voice grated now with pain. "I gave none," said Lois faintly. "Don't let us talk about it! It is no use. Don't ask me anything more!" "One question I must. I must know it. Do you dislike me, Lois?" "Dislike? O no! how should I dislike you?" she answered. There was a little, very slight, vibration in her voice as she spoke, and her companion discerned it. When an instrument is very high strung, a quite soft touch will be felt and answered, and that touch swept all the strings of Mr. Dillwyn's soul with music. "If you do not dislike me, then," said he, "what is it? Do you, possibly like me, Lois?" Lois could not prevent a little hesitation before she answered, and that, too, Philip well noted. "It makes no difference," she said desperately. "It isn't that. Don't let us talk any more about it! Mr. Dillwyn, the horses have been walking this great while, and we are a long way from home; won't you drive on?" He did drive on then, and for a while said not a word more. Lois was panting with eagerness to get home, and could not go fast enough; she would gladly have driven herself, only not quite such a fresh and gay pair of horses. They swept along towards a region that she could see from afar was thicker set with lights than the parts where they were. Before they reached it, however, Mr. Dillwyn drew rein again, and made the horses walk gently. "There is one question still I must ask," he said; "and to ask it, I must for a moment disobey your commands. Forgive me; but when the happiness of a whole life is at stake, a moment's pain must be borne—and even inflicted—to make sure one is not suffering needlessly a far greater evil. Miss Lois, you never do anything without a reason; tell me your reason for refusing me. You thought I liked some one else; it is not that; I never have liked any one else. Now, what is it?" "There is no use in talking," Lois murmured. "It is only pain." "Necessary pain," said he firmly. "It is right I should know, and it must be possible for you to tell me. Say that it is because you cannot like me well enough—and I shall understand that." But Lois could not say it; and the pause, which embarrassed her terribly, had naturally a different effect upon her companion. "It is not that!" he cried. "Have you been led to believe something false about me, Lois?—Lois?" "No," she said, trembling; the pain, and the difficulty of speaking, and the struggle it cost, set her absolutely to trembling. "No, it is something true." She spoke faintly, but he listened well. "True! What is it? It is not true. What do you mean, dear?" The several things which came with the intonations of this last question overset the remnant of Lois's composure. She burst into tears; and he was looking, and the moonlight was full in her face, and he could not but see it. "I cannot help it," she cried; "and you cannot help it. It is no use to talk about it. You know—O, you know—you are not a Christian!" It was almost a cry at last with which she said it; and the usually self-contained Lois hid her face away from him. Whether the horses walked or trotted for a little while she did not know; and I think it was only mechanical, the effort by which their driver kept them at a foot pace. He waited, however, till Lois dropped her hands again, and he thought she would attend to him. "May I ask," he then said, and his voice was curiously clear and composed,—"if that is your only objection to me?" "It is enough!" said Lois smotheredly, and noticing at the same time that ring in his voice. "You think, one who is a Christian ought never to marry another who is not a Christian?" "No!" she said, in the same way, as if catching her breath. "It is very often done." She made no reply. This was a most cruel discussion, she thought. Would they never reach home? And the horses walking! Walking, and shaking their heads, with soft little peals of the bells, like creatures who had at last got quiet enough to like walking. "Is that all, Lois?" he asked again; and the tone of his voice irritated her. "There need not be anything more," she answered. "That is enough. It is a barrier for ever between us; you cannot overcome it—and I cannot. O, do make the horses go! we shall never get home! and don't talk any more." "I will let the horses go presently; but first I must talk a little more, because there is something that must be said. That was a barrier, a while ago; but it is not now. There is no need for either of us to overcome it or try to overcome it, for it does not exist. Lois, do you hear me? It does not exist." "I do not understand," she said, in a dazed kind of way, turning towards him. "What does not exist?" "That barrier—or any barrier—between you and me." "Yes, it does. It is a barrier. I promised my dear grandmother—and if I had not promised her, it would be just the same, for I have promised to obey God; and he forbids it." "Forbids what?" "Forbids me, a Christian, to have anything to do with you, who are not a Christian. I mean, in that way." "But, Lois—I am a Christian too." "You?" she said, turning towards him. "Yes." "What sort of a one?" Philip could not help laughing at the naïve question, which, however, he perfectly understood. "Not an old one," he said; "and not a good one; and yet, Lois, truly an honest one. As you mean the word. One whose King Christ is, as he is yours; and who trusts in him with the whole heart, as you do." "You a Christian!" exclaimed Lois now, in the greatest astonishment. "When did it happen?" He laughed again. "A fair question. Well, it came about last summer. You recollect our talk one Sunday in the rain?" "O yes!"— "That set me to thinking; and the more I saw of you,—yes, and of Mrs. Armadale,—and the more I heard of you from Mrs. Barclay, the more the conviction forced itself upon my mind, that I was living, and had always lived, a fool's life. That was a conclusion easily reached; but how to become wise was another matter. I resolved to give myself to the study till I had found the answer; and that I might do it uninterruptedly, I betook myself to the wilds of Canada, with not much baggage beside my gun and my Bible. I hunted and fished; but I studied more than I did either. I took time for it too. I was longing to see you; but I resolved this subject should be disposed of first. And I gave myself to it, until it was all clear to me. And then I made open profession of my belief, and took service as one of Christ's declared servants. That was in Montreal." "In Montreal!" "Yes." "Why did you never say anything about it, then?" "I am not accustomed to talking on the subject, you know. But, really, I had a reason. I did not want to seem to propitiate your favour by any such means; I wished to try my chances with you on my own merits; and that was also a reason why I made my profession in Montreal. I wanted to do it without delay, it is true; I also wanted to do it quietly. I mean everybody shall know; but I wished you to be the first." There followed a silence. Things rushed into and over Lois's mind with such a sweep and confusion, that she hardly knew what she was thinking or feeling. All her positions were knocked away; all her assumptions were found baseless; her defences had been erected against nothing; her fears and her hopes were alike come to nought. That is, bien entendu, her old fears and her old hopes; and amid the ruins of the latter new ones were starting, in equally bewildering confusion. Like little green heads of daffodils pushing up above the frozen ground, and fair blossoms of hepatica opening beneath a concealing mat of dead leaves. Ah, they would blossom freely by and by; now Lois hardly knew where they were or what they were. Seeing her utterly silent and moveless, Mr. Dillwyn did probably the wisest thing he could do, and drove on. For some time the horses trotted and the bells jingled; and by too swift approaches that wilderness of lights which marked the city suburb came nearer and nearer. When it was very near and they had almost entered it, he drew in his reins again and the horses tossed their heads and walked. "Lois, I think it is fair I should have another answer to my question now." "What question?" she asked hurriedly. "You know, I was so daring as to ask to have the care of you for the rest of your natural life—or of mine. What do you say to it?" Lois said nothing. She could not find words. Words seemed to tumble over one another in her mind,—or thoughts did. "What answer are you going to give me?" he asked again, more gravely. "You know, Mr. Dillwyn," said Lois stammeringly, "I never thought,—I never knew before,—I never had any notion, that—that—that you thought so."— "Thought so?—about what?" "About me." "I have thought so about you for a great while." Silence again. The horses, being by this time pretty well exercised, needed no restraining, and walked for their own pleasure. Everything with Lois seemed to be in a whirl. "And now it becomes necessary to know what you think about me," Mr. Dillwyn went on, after that pause. "I am very glad—" Lois said tremulously. "Of what?" "That you are a Christian." "Yes, but," said he, half laughing, "that is not the immediate matter in hand. What do you think of me in my proposed character as having the ownership and the care of you?" "I have never thought of you so," Lois managed to get out. The words were rather faint, heard, however, as Mr. Dillwyn's hand came just then adjusting and tucking in her fur robes, and his face was thereby near hers. "And now you do think of me so?—What do you say to me?" She could not say anything. Never in her life had Lois been at a loss and wrecked in all self-management before. "You know, it is necessary to say something, that I may know where I stand. I must either stay or go. Will you send me away? or keep me 'for good,' as the children say?" The tone was not without a touch of grave anxiety now, and impatient earnestness, which Lois heard well enough and would have answered; but it seemed as if her tongue clave to the roof of her mouth. Mr. Dillwyn waited now for her to speak, keeping the horses at a walk, and bending down a little to hear what she would say. One sleigh passed them, then another. It became intolerable to Lois. "I do not want to send you away," she managed finally to say, trembling. The words, however, were clear and slow-spoken, and Mr. Dillwyn asked no more then. He drove on, and attended to his driving, even went fast; and Lois hardly knew how houses and rocks and vehicles flew past them, till the reins were drawn at Mrs. Wishart's door. Philip whistled; a groom presently appeared from the house and took the horses, and he lifted Lois out. As they were going up the steps he asked softly, "Is that all you are going to say to me?" "Isn't it enough for to-night?" Lois returned. "I see you think so," he said, half laughing. "I don't; but, however—Are you going to be alone to-morrow morning, or will you take another sleigh ride with me?" "Mrs. Wishart and Madge are going to Mme. Cisco's matinée." "At what o'clock?" "They will leave here at half-past ten." "Then I will be here before eleven." The door opened, and with a grip of her hand he turned away. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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