Nobody

"O, you cannot mean that!" cried Lois, much troubled and perplexed.

"I keep going over to-day that little hymn you showed me, that wasfound under the dead soldier's pillow. The words run in my head, andwake echoes.

'I lay me down to sleep, With little thought or care Whether the waking find Me here, or there.

'A bowing, burdened head – '"

But here the speaker broke off abruptly, and for a few minutes Loissaw, or guessed, that she could not go on.

"Never mind that verse," she said, beginning again; "it is the next. Doyou remember? —

'My good right hand forgetsIts cunning now.To march the weary march,I know not how.'I am not eager, bold,Nor brave; all that is past.I am ready not to do,At last, at last! – '

I am too young to feel so," Mrs. Barclay went on, after a pause which

Lois did not break; "but that is how I feel to-day."

"I do not think one need – or ought – at any age," Lois said gently; buther words were hardly regarded.

"Do you hear that wind?" said Mrs. Barclay. "It has been singing andsighing in the chimney in that way all the afternoon."

"It is Christmas," said Lois. "Yes, it often sings so, and I like it. Ilike it especially at Christmas time."

"It carries me back – years. It takes me to my old home, when I was achild. I think it must have sighed so round the house then. It takes meto a time when I was in my fresh young life and vigour – the unfoldingleaf – when life was careless and cloudless; and I have a kind ofhome-sickness to-night for my father and mother. – Of the days sincethat time, I dare not think."

Lois saw that rare tears had gathered in her friend's eyes, slowly andfew, as they come to people with whom hope is a lost friend; and herheart was filled with a great pang of sympathy. Yet she did not knowhow to speak. She recalled the verse of the soldier's hymn which Mrs.Barclay had passed over —

"A bowing, burdened head,That only asks to rest,Unquestioning, uponA loving breast."

She thought she knew what the grief was; but how to touch it? She satstill and silent, and perhaps even so spoke her sympathy better thanany words could have done it. And perhaps Mrs. Barclay felt it so, forshe presently went on after a manner which was not like her usualreserve.

"O that wind! O that wind! It sweeps away all that has been between, and puts home and my childhood before me. But it makes me home-sick,Lois!"

"Cannot you go on with the hymn, dear Mrs. Barclay? You know how itgoes, —

'My half day's work is done;And this is all my part —I give a patient GodMy patient heart.'"

"What does he want with it?" said the weary woman beside her.

"What? O, it is the very thing he wants of us, and of you; the onething he cares about! That we would love him."

"I have not done a half day's work," said the other; "and my heart isnot patient. It is only tired, and dead."

"It is not that," said Lois. "How very, very good you have been to

Madge and me!"

"You have been good to me. And, as your grandmother quoted thismorning, no thanks are due when we only love those who love us. Myheart does not seem to be alive, Lois. You had better go to your aunt'swithout me, dear. I should not be good company."

"But I cannot leave you so!" exclaimed Lois; and she left her seat andsank upon her knees at her friend's side, still clasping the hand thathad taken hers. "Dear Mrs. Barclay, there is help."

"If you could give it, there would be, you pretty creature!" said Mrs.Barclay, with her other hand pushing the beautiful masses of red-brownhair right and left from Lois's brow.

"But there is One who can give it, who is stronger than I, and lovesyou better."

"What makes you think so?"

"Because he has promised. 'Come unto me, all ye that labour and areheavy-laden, and I will give you rest.'"

Mrs. Barclay said nothing, but she shook her head.

"It is a promise," Lois repeated. "It is a PROMISE. It is the King'spromise; and he never breaks his word."

"How do you know, my child? You have never been where I am."

"No," said Lois, "not there. I have never felt just so."

"I have had all that life could give. I have had it, and knew I had it.

And it is all gone. There is nothing left."

"There is this left," said Lois eagerly, "which you have not tried."

"What?"

"The promise of Christ."

"My dear, you do not know what you are talking of. Life is in itsspring with you."

"But I know the King's promise," said Lois.

"How do you know it?"

"I have tried it."

"But you have never had any occasion to try it, you heart-soundcreature!" said Mrs. Barclay, with again a caressing, admiring touch ofLois's brow.

"O, but indeed I have. Not in need like yours – I have never touchedthat– I never felt like that; but in other need, as great and asterrible. And I know, and everybody else who has ever tried knows, thatthe Lord keeps his word."

"How have you tried?" Mrs. Barclay asked abstractedly.

"I needed the forgiveness of sin," said Lois, letting her voice fall alittle, "and deliverance from it."

"You!" said Mrs. Barclay.

"I was as unhappy as anybody could be till I got it."

"When was that?"

"Four years ago."

"Are you much different now from what you were before?"

"Entirely."

"I cannot imagine you in need of forgiveness. What had you done?"

"I had done nothing whatever that I ought to have done. I loved onlymyself, – I mean first, – and lived only to myself and my own pleasure, and did my own will."

"Whose will do you now? your grandmother's?"

"Not grandmother's first. I do God's will, as far as I know it."

"And therefore you think you are forgiven?"

"I don't think, I know," said Lois, with a quick breath. "And it isnot 'therefore' at all; it is because I am covered, or my sin is, withthe blood of Christ. And I love him; and he makes me happy."

"It is easy to make you happy, dear. To me there is nothing left in theworld, nor the possibility of anything. That wind is singing a dirge inmy ears; and it sweeps over a desert. A desert where nothing green willgrow any more!"

The words were spoken very calmly; there was no emotion visible thateither threatened or promised tears; a dull, matter-of-fact, perfectlyclear and quiet utterance, that almost broke Lois's heart. The waterthat was denied to the other eyes sprang to her own.

"It was in the wilderness that the people were fed with manna," shesaid, with a great gush of feeling in both heart and voice. "It waswhen they were starving and had no food, just then, that they got thebread from heaven."

"Manna does not fall now-a-days," said Mrs. Barclay with a faint smile.

"O yes, it does! There is your mistake, because you do not know. Itdoes come. Look here, Mrs. Barclay – "

She sprang up, went for a Bible which lay on one of the tables, and, dropping on her knees again by Mrs. Barclay's side, showed her an openpage.

"Look here – 'I am the bread of life; he that cometh to me shall neverhunger; and he that believeth on me shall never thirst… This is thebread which cometh down from heaven, that a man may eat thereof and notdie.' Not die of weariness, nor of anything else."

Mrs. Barclay did look with a little curiosity at the words Lois heldbefore her, but then she put down the book and took the girl in herarms, holding her close and laying her own head on Lois's shoulder.Whether the words had moved her, Lois could not tell, or whether it wasthe power of her own affection and sympathy; Mrs. Barclay did notspeak, and Lois did not dare add another word. They were still, wrappedin each other's arms, and one or two of Lois's tears wet the otherwoman's cheek; and there was no movement made by either of them; untilthe door was suddenly opened and they sprang apart.

"Here's Mr. Midgin," announced the voice of Miss Charity. "Shall hecome in? or ain't there time? Of all things, why can't folks chooseconvenient times for doin' what they have to do! It passes me. It'sbecause it's a sinful world, I suppose. But what shall I tell him? togo about his business, and come New Year's, or next Fourth of July?"

"You do not want to see him now?" said Lois hastily. But Mrs. Barclayroused herself, and begged that he might come in. "It is the carpenter,I suppose," said she.

Mr. Midgin was a tall, loose-jointed, large-featured man, with anundecided cast of countenance, and slow movements; which fitted oddlyto his big frame and powerful muscles. He wore his working suit, whichhung about him in a flabby way, and entered Mrs. Barclay's room withhis hat on. Hat and all, his head made a little jerk of salutation tothe lady.

"Good arternoon!" said he. "Sun'thin' I kin do here?"

"Yes, Mr. Midgin – I left word for you three days ago," said Lois.

"Jest so. I heerd. And here I be. Wall, I never see a room with so manybooks in it! Lois, you must be like a cow in clover, if you're half asfond of 'em as I be."

"You are fond of reading, Mr. Midgin?" said Mrs. Barclay.

"Wall, I think so. But what's in 'em all?" He came a step further intothe room and picked up a volume from the table. Mrs. Barclay watchedhim. He opened the book, and stood still, eagerly scanning the page, for a minute or two.

"'Lamps of Architectur'," said he, looking then at thetitle-page; – "that's beyond me. The only lamps of architectur that I ever see, in Shampuashuh anyway, is them that stands up at the depot,by the railroad; but here's 'truth,' and 'sacrifice,' and I don' knowwhat all; 'hope' and 'love,' I expect. Wall, them's good lamps to lightup anythin' by; only I don't make out whatever they kin have to do withbuildin's." He picked up an other volume.

"What's this?" said he. "'Tain't my native tongue. What do ye callit, Lois?"

"That is French, Mr. Midgin."

"That's French, eh?" said he, turning over the leaves. "I want to know!

Don't look as though there was any sense in it. What is it about, now?"

"It is a story of a man who was king of Rome a great while ago."

"King o' Rome! What was his name? Not Romulus and Remus, I s'pose?"

"No; but he came just after Romulus."

"Did, hey? Then you s'pose there ever was sich a man as Romulus?"

"Probably," Mrs. Barclay now said. "When a story gets form and lives, there is generally some thing of fact to serve as foundation for it."

"You think that?" said the carpenter. "Wall, I kin tell you storiesthat had form enough and life enough in 'em, to do a good deal o' work; and that yet grew up out o' nothin' but smoke. There was GovernorDenver; he was governor o' this state for quite a spell; and he was aShampuashuh man, so we all knew him and thought lots o' him. He was sotagainst drinking. Mebbe you don't think there's no harm in wine and thelike?"

"I have not been accustomed to think there was any harm in itcertainly, unless taken immoderately."

"Ay, but how're you goin' to fix what's moderately? there's the pinch.What's a gallon for me's only a pint for you. Wall, Governor Denverdidn't believe in havin' nothin' to do with the blamed stuff; and hehad taken the pledge agin it, and he was known for an out and outtemperance man; teetotal was the word with him. Wall, his daughter wasmarried, over here at New Haven; and they had a grand weddin', and agood many o' the folks was like you, they thought there was no harm init, if one kept inside the pint, you know; and there was enough foreverybody to hev had his gallon. And then they said the Governor hadtaken his glass to his daughter's health, or something like that. Wall, all Shampuashuh was talkin' about it, and Governor Denver's friends washangin' their heads, and didn't know what to say; for whatever a manthinks, – and thoughts is free, – he's bound to stand to what he says,and particularly if he has taken his oath upon it. So Governor Denver'sfriends was as worried as a steam-vessel in a fog, when she can't hearthe 'larm bells; and one said this and t'other said that. And at last Icouldn't stand it no longer; and I writ him a letter – to the Governor; and says I, 'Governor,' says I, 'did you drink wine at your daughterLottie's weddin' at New Haven last month?' And if you'll believe me, hewrit me back, 'Jonathan Midgin, Esq. Dear sir, I was in New York theday you mention, shakin' with chills and fever, and never got toLottie's weddin' at all.' – What do you think o' that? Overturns yourtheory a leetle, don't it? Warn't no sort o' foundation for that story; and yet it did go round, and folks said it was so."

"It is a strong story for your side, Mr. Midgin, undoubtedly."

"Ain't it! La! bless you, there's nothin' you kin be sartain of in thisworld. I don't believe in no Romulus and his wolf. Half o' all thesebooks, now, I have no doubt, tells lies; and the other half, you don'know which 'tis."

"I cannot throw them away however, just yet; and so, Mr. Midgin, I wantsome shelves to keep them off the floor."

"I should say you jest did! Where'll you put 'em?"

"The shelves? All along that side of the room, I think. And about sixfeet high."

"That'll hold 'em," said Mr. Midgin, as he applied his measuring rule.

"Jest shelves? or do you want a bookcase fixed up all reg'lar?"

"Just shelves. That is the prettiest bookcase, to my thinking."

"That's as folks looks at it," said Mr. Midgin, who apparently was of adifferent opinion. "What'll they be? Mahogany, or walnut, or cherry, ormaple, or pine? You kin stain 'em any colour. One thing's handsome, andanother thing's cheap; and I don' know yet whether you want 'em cheapor handsome."

"Want 'em both, Mr. Midgin," said Lois.

"H'm! – Well – maybe there's folks that knows how to combine bothadvantages – but I'm afeard I ain't one of 'em. Nothin' that's cheap'shandsome, to my way o' thinkin'. You don't make much count o' cheapthings here anyhow," said he, surveying the room. And then he beganhis measurements, going round the sides of the apartment to apply hisrule to all the plain spaces; and Mrs. Barclay noticed how tenderly hehandled the books which he had to move out of his way. Now and then hestopped to open one, and stood a minute or two peering into it. Allthis while his hat was on.

"Should like to read that," he remarked, with a volume of Macaulay'sEssays in his hands. "That's well written. But a man can't read all theworld," he went on, as he laid it out of his hands again. "'Much studyis a weariness to the flesh.' Arter all, I don't suppose a man'd be nowiser if he'd read all you've got here. The biggest fool I ever knowed, was the man that had read the most."

"How did he show his folly?" Mrs. Barclay asked.

"Wall, it's a story. Lois knows. He was dreadfully sot on a littlegrandchild he had; his chil'n was all dead, and he had jest this oneleft; she was a little girl. And he never left her out o' his sight, nor she him; until one day he had to go to Boston for some business; and he couldn't take her; and he said he knowed some harm'd come. Doyou believe in presentiments."

"Sometimes," said Mrs. Barclay.

"How should a man have presentiments o' what's comin'?"

"I cannot answer that."

"No, nor nobody else. It ain't reason. I believe the presentimentsmakes the things come."

"Was that the case in this instance?"

"Wall, I don't see how it could. When he come back from Boston, thelittle girl was dead; but she was as well as ever when he went away.Ain't that curious?"

"Certainly; if it is true."

"I'm tellin' you nothin' but the truth. The hull town knows it. 'Tain'tno secret. 'Twas old Mr. Roderick, you know, Lois; lived up yonder onthe road to the ferry. And after he come back from the funeral he shuthimself up in the room where his grandchild had been – and nobody eversee him no more from that day, 'thout 'twas the folks in the house; andthere warn't many o' them; but he never went out. An' he never went outfor seven years; and at the end o' seven years he had to – there wasmoney in it – and folks that won't mind nothin' else, they minds Mammon, you know; so he went out. An' as soon as he was out o' the house, hiswomen-folks, they made a rush for his room, fur to clean it; for, ifyou'll believe me, it hadn't been cleaned all those years; and I expect'twas in a condition; but the women likes nothin' better; and as theyopened some door or other, of a closet or that, out runs a little whitemouse, and it run clear off; they couldn't catch it any way, and theytried every way. It was gone, and they were scared, for they knowed theold gentleman's ways. It wasn't a closet either it was in, but somepiece o' furniture; I'm blessed ef I can remember what they called it.The mouse was gone, and the women-folks was scared; and to be sure, when Mr. Roderick come home he went as straight as a line to that theredoor where the mouse was; and they say he made a terrible rumpus whenhe couldn't find it; but arter that the spell was broke, like; and helived pretty much as other folks. Did you say six feet?"

"That will be high enough. And you may leave a space of eight or tenfeet on that side, from window to window."

"Thout any?"

"Yes."

"That'll be kind o' lop-sided, won't it? I allays likes to see thingssamely. What'll you do with all that space of emptiness? It'll lookawful bare."

"I will put something else there. What do you suppose the white mousehad to do with your old gentleman's seclusion?"

"Seclusion? Livin' shut up, you mean? Why, don't ye see, he believedthe mouse was the sperrit o' the child – leastways the sperrit o' thechild was in it. You see, when he got back from the funeral the firstthing his eyes lit upon was that ere white mouse; and it was white, yousee, and that ain't a common colour for a mouse; and it got into hishead, and couldn't get out, that that was Ella's sperrit. It mought ha'ben, for all I can say; but arter that day, it was gone."

"You think the child's spirit might have been in the mouse?"

"Who knows? I never say nothin' I don't know, nor deny nothin' I du know; ain't that a good principle?"

"But you know better than that, Mr. Midgin," said Lois.

"Wall, I don't! Maybe you do, Lois; but accordin' to my lights Idon't know. You'll hev 'em walnut, won't you? that'll look more likefurniture."

"Are you coming? The waggon's here, Lois," said Madge, opening thedoor. "Is Mrs. Barclay ready?"

"Will be in two minutes," replied that lady. "Yes, Mr. Midgin, let thembe walnut; and good evening! Yes, Lois, I am quite roused up now, and Iwill go with you. I will walk, dear; I prefer it."

CHAPTER XXV

ROAST PIG

Mrs. Barclay seemed to have entirely regained her usual composure andeven her usual spirits, which indeed were never high. She said sheenjoyed the walk, which she and Lois took in company, Madge having gonewith her grandmother and Charity in Mrs. Marx's waggon. The winterevening was falling grey, and the grey was growing dark; and there wassomething in the dusky stillness, and soft, half-defined lines of thelandscape, with the sharp, crisp air, which suited the mood of bothladies. The stars were not visible yet; the western horizon had still aglow left from the sunset; and houses and trees stood like dark solemnghosts along the way before the end of the walk was reached. Theytalked hardly at all, but Mrs. Barclay said when she got to Mrs.Marx's, that the walk had been delightful.

At Mrs. Marx's all was in holiday perfection of order; though that wasthe normal condition of things, indeed, where that lady ruled. Thepaint of the floors was yellow and shining; the carpets were thick andbright; the table was set with great care; the great chimney in theupper kitchen where the supper was prepared, was magnificent with itsblazing logs. So was a lesser fireplace in the best parlour, where theguests were first received; but supper was ready, and they adjourned tothe next room. There the table invited them most hospitably, loadedwith dainties such as people in the country can get at Christmas time.One item of the entertainment not usual at Christmas time was a roastpig; its brown and glossy back making a very conspicuous object at oneside of the board.

"I thought I'd surprise you all," remarked the satisfied hostess; forshe knew the pig was done to a turn; "and anything you don't expecttastes twice as good. I knew ma' liked pig better'n anything; and Ithink myself it's about the top sheaf. I suppose nothin' can be asurprise to Mrs. Barclay."

"Why do you suppose so?" asked that lady.

"I thought you'd seen everything there was in the world, and a littlemore."

"Never saw a roast pig before in my life. But I have read of them."

"Read of them!" exclaimed their hostess. "In a cook-book, likely?"

"Alas! I never read a cook-book."

"No more didn't I; but you'll excuse me, I didn't believe you carriedit all in your head, like we folks."

"I have not a bit of it in my head, if you mean the art of cookery. Ihave a profound respect for it; but I know nothing about it whatever."

"Well, you're right to have a respect for it. Uncle Tim, do you justgive Mrs. Barclay some of the best of that pig, and let us see how shelikes it. And the stuffing, uncle Tim, and the gravy; and plenty of thecrackle. Mother, it's done just as you used to do it."

Mrs. Barclay meanwhile surveyed the company. Mrs. Armadale sat at theend of the table; placid and pleasant as always, though to Mrs. Barclayher aspect had somewhat of the severe. She did not smile much, yet shelooked kindly over her assembled children. Uncle Tim was her brother;Uncle Tim Hotchkiss. He had the so frequent New England mingling of theshrewd and the benevolent in his face; and he was a much more jollypersonage than his sister; younger than she, too, and still vigorous.Unlike her, also, he was a handsome man; had been very handsome in hisyoung days; and, as Mrs. Barclay's eye roved over the table, shethought few could show a better assemblage of comeliness than wasgathered round this one. Madge was strikingly handsome in herwell-fitting black dress; Lois made a very plain brown stuff seemresplendent; she had a little fleecy white woollen shawl wound abouther shoulders, and Mrs. Barclay could hardly keep her eyes away fromthe girl. And if the other members of the party were less beautiful infeature, they had every one of them in a high degree the stamp ofintellect and of character. Mrs. Barclay speculated upon the strangesociety in which she found herself; upon the odd significance of herbeing there; and on the possible outcome, weighty and incalculable, ofthe connection of the two things. So intently that she almost forgotwhat she was eating, and she started at Mrs. Marx's suddenquestion – "Well, how do you like it? Charity, give Mrs. Barclay somepickles – what she likes; there's sweet pickle, that's peaches; andsharp pickle, that's red cabbage; and I don' know which of 'em shelikes best; and give her some apple – have you got any apple sauce, Mrs.Barclay?"

"Thank you, everything; and everything is delicious."

"That's how things are gen'ally, in Mrs. Marx's hands," remarked uncle

Tim. "There ain't her beat for sweets and sours in all the country."

"Mrs. Barclay's accustomed to another sort o' doings," said theirhostess. "I didn't know but she mightn't like our ways."

"I like them very much, I assure you."

"There ain't no better ways than Shampuashuh ways," said uncle Tim. "Ifthere be, I'd like to see 'em once. Lois, you never see a handsomerdinner'n this in New York, did you? Come now, and tell. Did you?"

"I never saw a dinner where things were better of their kind, uncle

Tim."

Mrs. Barclay smiled to herself. That will do, she thought.

"Is that an answer?" said uncle Tim. "I'll be shot if I know."

"It is as good an answer as I can give," returned Lois, smiling.

"Of course she has seen handsomer!" said Mrs. Marx. "If you talk ofelegance, we don't pretend to it in Shampuashuh. Be thankful if whatyou have got is good, uncle Tim; and leave the rest."

"Well, I don't understand," responded uncle Tim. "Why shouldn'tShampuashuh be elegant, I don't see? Ain't this elegant enough foranybody?"

"'Tain't elegant at all," said Mrs. Marx. "If this was in one o' theelegant places, there'd be a bunch o' flowers in the pig's mouth, and aring on his tail."

At the face which uncle Tim made at this, Lois's gravity gave way; anda perfect echo of laughter went round the table.