"Cold frica.s.see ain't worth a cent."

"Cook them some other way. Roast them,--or-- Give them to me, and I'll do them for you! I'll do them, Charity. Then with your nice bread, and apple sauce, and potatoes, and some of my pears and apples, and a pumpkin pie, Charity, and coffee,--we shall do very well. Mr. Dillwyn has made a worse dinner in the course of his wanderings, I'll undertake to maintain."

"What shall I have for supper?" Charity asked doubtfully. "Supper comes first."

"Shortcake. And some of your cold ham. And stew up some quinces and apples together, Cherry. You don't want anything more,--or better."

"Do you think he will understand having a cold dinner, Sunday?" Charity asked. "Men make so much of hot dinners."

"What does it signify, my dear, whether he understands it or not?" said Mrs. Armadale. "What we have to do, is what the Lord tells us to do.

That is all you need mind."

"I mind what folks think, though," said Charity. "Mrs. Barclay's friend especially."

"I do not think he will notice it," said simple Mrs. Armadale.

CHAPTER x.x.xIII.

THE VALUE OF MONEY.

There was a little more bustle in the house than usual during the next two days; and the spare room was no doubt put in very particular order, with the best of all the house could furnish on the bed and toilet-table. Pantry and larder also were well stocked; and Lois was just watching the preparation of her chickens, Sat.u.r.day evening, and therefore in the kitchen, when Mr. Dillwyn came to the door. Mrs.

Barclay herself let him in, and brought him into her own warm, comfortable, luxurious-looking sitting-room. The evening was falling dusk, so that the little wood lire in Mrs. Barclay's chimney had opportunity to display itself, and I might say, the room too; which never could have showed to better advantage. The flickering light danced back again from gilded books, from the polished case of the piano, from picture frames, and pictures, and piles of music, and comfortable easy-chairs standing invitingly, and trinkets of art or curiosity; an unrolled engraving in one place, a stereoscope in another, a work-basket, and the bright bra.s.s stand of a microscope.

The greeting was warm between the two friends; and then Mrs. Barclay sat down and surveyed her visitor, whom she had not seen for so long.

He was not a beauty of Tom Caruthers' sort, but he was what I think better; manly and intelligent, and with an air and bearing of frank n.o.bleness which became him exceedingly. That he was a man with a serious purpose in life, or any object of earnest pursuit, you would not have supposed; and that character had never belonged to him. Mrs.

Barclay, looking at him, could not see any sign that it was his now.

Look and manner were easy and careless as of old.

"You are not changed," she remarked.

"What should change me?" said he, while his eye ran rapidly over the apartment. "And you?--you do not look as if life was stagnating here."

"It does not stagnate. I never was further from stagnation in all my life."

"And yet Shampuashuh is in a corner!"

"Is not most of the work of the world done in corners? It is not the b.u.t.terfly, but the coral insect, that lays foundations and lifts up islands out of the sea."

"You are not a coral insect any more than I am a b.u.t.terfly," said Dillwyn, laughing.

"Rather more."

"I acknowledge it, thankfully. And I am rejoiced to know from your letters that the seclusion has been without any evil consequences to yourself. It has been pleasant?"

"Royally pleasant. I have delighted in my building; even although I could not tell whether my island would not prove a dangerous one to mariners."

"I have just been having a discourse on that subject with my sister. I think one's sisters are--I beg your pardon!--the mischief. Tom's sister has done for him; and mine is very eager to take care of me."

"Did you consult her?" asked Mrs. Barclay, with surprise.

"Nothing of the kind! I merely told her I was coming up here to see you. A few questions followed, as to what you were doing here,--which I did not tell her, by the way,--and she hit the bull's eye with the instinctive accuracy of a woman; poured out upon me in consequence a lecture upon imprudence. Of course I confessed to nothing, but that mattered not. All that Tom's sister urged upon him, my good sister pressed upon me."

"So did I once, did I not?"

"You are not going to repeat it?"

"No; that is over, for me. I know better. But, Philip, I do not see the way very clear before you."

He left the matter there, and went off into a talk with her upon widely-different subjects, touching or growing out of his travels and experiences during the last year and a half. The twilight darkened, and the fire brightened, and in the light of the fire the two sat and talked; till a door opened, and in the same flickering shine a figure presented itself which Mr. Dillwyn remembered. Though now it was clothed in nothing finer than a dark calico, and round her shoulders a little white worsted shawl was twisted. Mrs. Barclay began a sentence of introduction, but Mr. Dillwyn cut her short.

"Do not do me such dishonour," he said. "Must I suppose that Miss Lothrop has forgotten me?"

"Not at all, Mr. Dillwyn," said Lois frankly; "I remember you very well. Tea will be ready in a minute--would you like to see your room first?"

"You are too kind, to receive me!"

"It is a pleasure. You are Mrs. Barclay's friend, and she is at home here; I will get a light."

Which she did, and Mr. Dillwyn, seeing he could not find his own way, was obliged to accept her services and see her trip up the stairs before him. At the door she handed him the light and ran down again.

There was a fire here too--a wood fire; blazing hospitably, and throwing its cheery light upon a wide, pleasant, country room, not like what Mr. Dillwyn was accustomed to, but it seemed the more hospitable.

Nothing handsome there; no articles of luxury (beside the fire); the reflection of the blaze came back from dark old-fashioned chairs and chests of drawers, dark chintz hangings to windows and bed, white counterpane and napery, with a sonsy, sober, quiet air of comfort; and the air was fresh and sweet as air should be, and as air can only be at a distance from the smoke of many chimneys and the congregated habitations of many human beings. I do not think Mr. Dillwyn spent much attention upon these details; yet he felt himself in a sound, clear, healthy atmosphere, socially as well as physically; also had a perception that it was very far removed from that in which he had lived and breathed hitherto. How simply that girl had lighted him up the stairs, and given him his bra.s.s candlestick at the door of his room!

What _a plomb_ could have been more perfect! I do not mean to imply that Mr. Dillwyn knew the candlestick was bra.s.s; I am afraid there was a glamour over his eyes which made it seem golden.

He found Mrs. Barclay seated in a very thoughtful att.i.tude before her fire, when he came down again; but just then the door of the other room was opened, and they were called in to tea.

The family were in rather gala trim. Lois, as I said, wore indeed only a dark print dress, with her white fichu over it; but Charity had put on her best silk, and Madge had stuck two golden chrysanthemums in her dark hair (with excellent effect), and Mrs. Armadale was stately in her best cap. Alas! Philip Dillwyn did not know what any of them had on. He was placed next to Mrs. Armadale, and all supper time his special attention, so far as appeared, was given to the old lady. He talked to her, and he served her, with an easy, pleasant grace, and without at all putting himself forward or taking the part of the distinguished stranger. It was simply good will and good breeding; however, it produced a great effect.

"The air up here is delicious!" he remarked, after he had attended to all the old lady's immediate wants, and applied himself to his own supper. "It gives one a tremendous appet.i.te."

"I allays like to see folks eat," said Mrs. Armadale. "After one's done the gettin' things ready, I hate to have it all for nothin'."

"It shall not be for nothing this time, as far as I am concerned."

"Ain't the air good in New York?" Mrs. Armadale next asked.

"I do not think it ever was so sweet as this. But when you crowd a million or so of people into room that is only enough for a thousand, you can guess what the consequences must be."

"What do they crowd up so for, then?"

"It must be the case in a great city."

"I don't see the sense o' that," said Mrs. Armadale. "Ain't the world big enough?"