Nobody Part 87

"There is a good deal of such service," said Lois, "but it is not the true. It is partial, and arbitrary; it ebbs and flows, and chooses; and is found consorting with what is not service, but the contrary. True service, given to G.o.d, and rising from the love of him, goes where it is sent and does what it is bidden, and has too high a spring ever to fail. Real service gives all, and is ready for everything."

"How much do you mean, I wonder, by 'giving all'? Do you use the words soberly?"

"Quite soberly," said Lois, laughing.

"Giving all what?"

"All one's power,--according to Foster's judgment of it."

"Do you know what that would end in?"

"I think I do. How do you mean?"

"Do you know how much a man or a woman would give who gave _all_ he had?"

"Yes, of course I do."

"What would be left for himself?"

Lois did not answer at once; but then she stopped short in her walk and stood still, in the midst of rain and wind, confronting her companion.

And her words were with an energy that she did not at all mean to give them.

"There would be left for him--all that the riches and love of G.o.d could do for his child."

Mr. Dillwyn gazed into the face that was turned towards him, flushed, fired, earnest, full of a grand consciousness, as of a most simple unconsciousness,--and for the moment did not think of replying. Then Lois recollected herself, smiled at herself, and went on.

"I am very foolish to talk so much," she said. "I do not know why I do.

Somehow I think it is your fault, Mr. Dillwyn. I am not in the habit, I think, of holding forth so to people who ought to know better than myself."

"I am sure you are aware that I was speaking honestly, and that I do _not_ know better?" he said.

"I suppose I thought so," Lois answered. "But that does not quite excuse me. Only--I was sorry for you, Mr. Dillwyn."

"Thank you. Now, may I go on? The conversation can hardly be so interesting to you as it is to me."

"I think I have said enough," said Lois, a little shyly.

"No, not enough, for I want to know more. The sentence you quoted from Foster, if it is true, is overwhelming. If it is true, it leaves all the world with terrible arrears of obligation."

"Yes," Lois answered half reluctantly,--"duty unfulfilled _is_ terrible. But, not 'all the world,' Mr. Dillwyn."

"You are an exception."

"I did not mean myself. I do not suppose I do all I ought to do. I do try to do all I know. But there are a great many beside me, who do better."

"You agree then, that one is not bound by duties _unknown?_"

Lois hesitated. "You are making me talk again, as if I were wise," she said. "What should hinder any one from knowing his duty, Mr. Dillwyn."

"Suppose a case of pure ignorance."

"Then let ignorance study."

"Study what?"

"Mr. Dillwyn, you ought to ask somebody who can answer you better."

"I do not know any such somebody."

"Haven't you a Christian among all your friends?"

"I have not a friend in the world, of whom I could ask such a question with the least hope of having it answered."

"Where is your minister?"

"My minister? Clergyman, you mean? Miss Lois, I have been a wanderer over the earth for years. I have not any 'minister.'"

Lois was silent again. They had been walking fast, as well as talking fast, spite of wind and rain; the church was left behind some time ago, and the more comely and elegant part of the village settlement.

"We shall have to stop talking now," Lois said, "for we are near my place."

"Which is your place?"

"Do you see that old schoolhouse, a little further on? We have that for our meetings. Some of the boys put it in order and make the fire for me."

"You will let me come in?"

"You?" said Lois. "O no! n.o.body is there but my cla.s.s."

"You will let me be one of them to-day? Seriously,--I am going to wait to see you home; you will not let me wait in the rain?"

"I shall bid you go home," said Lois, laughing.

"I am not going to do that."

"Seriously, Mr. Dillwyn, I do not need the least care."

"Perhaps. But I must look at the matter from my point of view."

What a troublesome man! thought Lois; but then they were at the schoolhouse door, the wind and rain came with such a wild burst, that it seemed the one thing to do to get under shelter; and so Mr. Dillwyn went in with her, and how to turn him out Lois did not know.

It was a bare little place. The sanded floor gave little help or seeming of comfort; the wooden chairs and benches were old and hard; however, the small stove did give out warmth enough to make the place habitable, even to its furthest corners. Six people were already there.

Lois gave a rapid glance at the situation. There was no time, and it was no company for a prolonged battle with the intruder.

"Mr. Dillwyn," she said softly, "will you take a seat by the stove, as far from us as you can; and make believe you have neither eyes nor ears? You must not be seen to have either--by any use you make of them.

If you keep quite still, maybe they will forget you are here. You can keep up the fire for us."

She turned from him to greet her young friends, and Mr. Dillwyn obeyed orders. He hung up his wet hat and coat and sat down in the furthest corner; placing himself so, however, that neither eyes nor ears should be hindered in the exercise of their vocation, while his att.i.tude might have suggested a fit of sleepiness, or a most indifferent meditation on things far distant, or possibly rest after severe exertion. Lois and her six scholars took their places at the other end of the room, which was too small to prevent every word they spoke from being distinctly heard by the one idle spectator. A spectator in truth Mr. Dillwyn desired to be, not merely an auditor; so, as he had been warned he must not be seen to look, he arranged himself in a manner to serve both purposes, of seeing and not seeing.