Nobody Part 86

"No. Lois does not mind weather. I have learned to know her by this time. Where she thinks she ought to go, or what she thinks she ought to do, there no hindrance will stop her. It is good you should learn to know her too, Philip."

"Pray tell me,--is the question of 'ought' never affected by what should be legitimate hindrances?"

"They are never credited with being legitimate," Mrs. Barclay said, with a slight laugh. "The principle is the same as that old soldier's who said, you know, when ordered upon some difficult duty, 'Sir, if it is possible, it shall be done; and if it is impossible, it _must_ be done!'"

"That will do for a soldier,", said Dillwyn. "At what o'clock does she go?"

"In about a quarter of an hour I shall expect to hear her feet pattering softly through the hall, and then the door will open and shut without noise, and a dark figure will shoot past the windows."

Mr. Dillwyn left the room, and probably made some preparations; for when, a few minutes later, a figure all wrapped up in a waterproof cloak did pa.s.s softly through the hall, he came out of Mrs. Barclay's room and confronted it; and I think his overcoat was on.

"Miss Lois! you cannot be going out in this storm?"

"O yes. The storm is nothing--only something to fight against."

"But it blows quite furiously."

"I don't dislike a wind," said Lois, laying her hand on the lock of the door.

"You have no umbrella?"

"Don't need it. I am all protected, don't you see? Mr. Dillwyn, _you_ are not going out?"

"Why not?"

"But you have nothing to call you out?"

"I beg your pardon. The same thing, I venture to presume, that calls you out,--duty. Only in my case the duty is pleasure."

"You are not going to take care of me?"

"Certainly."

"But there's no need. Not the least in the world."

"From your point of view."

He was so alertly ready, had the door open and his umbrella spread, and stood outside waiting for her, Lois did not know how to get rid of him.

She would surely have done it if she could. So she found herself going up the street with him by her side, and the umbrella warding off the wind and rain from her face. It was vexatious and amusing. From her face! who had faced Sharnpuashuh storms ever since she could remember.

It is very odd to be taken care of on a sudden, when you are accustomed, and perfectly able, to take care of your self. It is also agreeable.

"You had better take my arm, Miss Lois," said her companion. "I could s.h.i.+eld you better."

"Well," said Lois, half laughing, "since you are here, I may as well take the good of it."

And then Mr. Dillwyn had got things as he wanted them.

"I ventured to a.s.sume, a little while ago, Miss Lois, that duty was taking you out into this storm; but I confess my curiosity to know what duty could have the right to do it. If my curiosity is indiscreet, you can rebuke it."

"It is not indiscreet," said Lois. "I have a sort of a Bible cla.s.s, in the upper part of the village, a quarter of a mile beyond the church."

"I understood it was something of that kind, or I should not have asked. But in such weather as this, surely they would not expect you?"

"Yes, they would. At any rate, I am bound to show that I expect them."

"_Do_ you expect them, to come out to-day?"

"Not all of them," Lois allowed. "But if there would not be one, still I must be there."

"Why?--if you will pardon me for asking."

"It is good they should know that I am regular and to be depended on.

And, besides, they will be sure to measure the depth of my interest in the work by my desire to do it. And one can do so little in this world at one's best, that one is bound to do all one can."

"All one can," Mr. Dillwyn repeated.

"You cannot put it at a lower figure. I was struck with a word in one of Mrs. Barclay's books--'the Life and Correspondence of John Foster,'--'Power, to its very last particle, is duty.'"

"But that would be to make life a terrible responsibility."

"Say n.o.ble--not terrible!" said Lois.

"I confess it seems to me terrible also. I do not see how you can get rid of the element of terribleness."

"Yes,--if duty is neglected. Not if duty is done."

"Who does his duty, at that rate?"

"Some people _try_," said Lois.

"And that trying must make life a servitude."

"Service--not servitude!" exclaimed Lois again, with the same wholesome, hearty ring in her voice that her companion had noticed before.

"How do you draw the line between them?" he asked, with an inward smile; and yet Mr. Dillwyn was earnest enough too.

"There is more than a line between them," said Lois. "There is all the distance between freedom and slavery." And the words recurred to her, "I will walk at liberty, _for I seek thy precepts;_" but she judged they would not be familiar to her companion nor meet appreciation from him, so she did not speak them. "_Service_," she went on, "I think is one of the n.o.blest words in the world; but it cannot be rendered servilely. It must be free, from the heart."

"You make nice distinctions. Service, I suppose you mean, of one's fellow creatures?"

"No," said Lois, "I do not mean that. Service must be given to G.o.d. It will work out upon one's fellow-creatures, of course."

"Nice distinctions again," said Mr. Dillwyn.

"But very real! And very essential."

"Is there not service--true service--that is given wholly to one's needy fellows of humanity? It seems to me I have heard of such."