Nobody

Two or three evenings after this, Philip Dillwyn was taking his waydown the Avenue, not up it. He followed it down to nearly its lowertermination, and turned up into Clinton Place, where he presently runup the steps of a respectable but rather dingy house, rang the bell, and asked for Mrs. Barclay.

The room where he awaited her was one of those dismal places, a publicparlour in a boarding-house of second or third rank. Respectable, butforlorn. Nothing was ragged or untidy, but nothing either had the leastlook of home comfort or home privacy. As to home elegance, or luxury, the look of such a room is enough to put it out of one's head thatthere can be such things in the world. The ugly ingrain carpet, theungraceful frame of the small glass in the pier, the abominableportraits on the walls, the disagreeable paper with which they werehung, the hideous lamps on the mantelpiece; – wherever the eye looked,it came back with uneasy discomfort. Philip's eye came back to thefire; and that was not pleasant to see; for the fireplace was notproperly cared for, the coals were lifeless, and evidently moreeconomical than useful. Philip looked very out of place in thesesurroundings. No one could for a moment have supposed him to be livingamong them. His thoroughly well-dressed figure, the look of easyrefinement in his face, the air of one who is his own master, soinimitable by one whose circumstances master him; all said plainly thatMr. Dillwyn was here only on account of some one else. It could be nohome of his.

As little did it seem fitted to be the home of the lady who presentlyentered. A tall, elegant, dignified woman; in the simplest of dresses, indeed, which probably bespoke scantiness of means, but which could notat all disguise or injure the impression of high breeding andrefinement of manners which her appearance immediately produced. Shewas a little older than her visitor, yet not much; a woman in the primeof life she would have been, had not life gone hard with her; and shehad been very handsome, though the regular features were shadowed withsadness, and the eyes had wept too many tears not to have suffered lossof their original brightness. She had the slow, quiet manner of onewhose life is played out; whom the joys and sorrows of the world haveboth swept over, like great waves, and receding, have left the world abarren strand for her; where the tide is never to rise again. She was asad-eyed woman, who had accepted her sadness, and could be quietlycheerful on the surface of it. Always, at least, as far as goodbreeding demanded. She welcomed Mr. Dilhvyn with a smile and evidentgenuine pleasure.

"How do I find you?" he said, sitting down.

"Quite well. Where have you been all summer? I need not ask how you are."

"Useless things always thrive," he said. "I have been wandering aboutamong the mountains and lakes in the northern part of Maine."

"That is very wild, isn't it?"

"Therein lies its charm."

"There are not roads and hotels?"

"The roads the lumberers make. And I saw one hotel, and did not want tosee any more."

"How did you find your way?"

"I had a guide – an Indian, who could speak a little English."

"No other company?"

"Rifle and fishing-rod."

"Good work for them there, I suppose?"

"Capital. Moose, and wild-fowl, and fish, all of best quality. I wished

I could have sent you some."

"Thank you for thinking of me. I should have liked the game too."

"Are you comfortable here?" he asked, lowering his voice. Just then thedoor opened; a man's head was put in, surveyed the two people in theroom, and after a second's deliberation disappeared again.

"You have not this room to yourself?" inquired Dilhvyn.

"O no. It is public property."

"Then we may be interrupted?"

"At any minute. Do you want to talk to me, 'unter vier Augen'?"

"I want no more, certainly. Yes, I came to talk to you; and I cannot,if people keep coming in." A woman's head had now shown itself for amoment. "I suppose in half an hour there will be a couple of oldgentlemen here playing backgammon. I see a board. Have you not a cornerto yourself?"

"I have a corner," she said, hesitating; "but it is only big enough tohold me. However, if you will promise to make no remarks, and to 'makebelieve,' as the children say, that the place is six times as large asit is, I will, for once take you to it. I would take no one else."

"The honour will not outweigh the pleasure," said Dillwyn as he rose.

"But why must I put such a force upon my imagination?"

"I do not want you to pity me. Do you mind going up two flights ofstairs?"

"I would not mind going to the top of St. Peter's!"

"The prospect will be hardly like that."

She led the way up two flights of stairs. At the top of them, in thethird story, she opened the door of a little end room, cut off thehall. Dillwyn waited outside till she had found her box of matches andlit a lamp; then she let him come in and shut the door. It was a littlebit of a place indeed, about six feet by twelve. A table, covered withbooks and papers, hanging shelves with more books, a work-basket, atrunk converted into a divan by a cushion and chintz cover, and arocking-chair, about filled the space. Dillwyn took the divan, and Mrs.Barclay the chair. Dillwyn looked around him.

"I should never dream of pitying the person who can be contented here,"he said.

"Why?"

"The mental composition must be so admirable! I suppose you haveanother corner, where to sleep?"

"Yes," she said, smiling; "the other little room like this at the otherend of the hall. I preferred this arrangement to having one larger roomwhere I must sit and sleep both. Old habits are hard to get rid of. Nowtell me more about the forests of Maine. I have always had a curiosityabout that portion of the country."

He did gratify her for a while; told of his travels, and camping out; and of his hunting and fishing; and of the lovely scenery of the lakesand hills. He had been to the summit of Mount Kataydin, and he hadexplored the waters in 'birches;' and he told of odd specimens ofhumanity he had found on his way; but after a while of this talk Philipcame suddenly back to his starting point.

"Mrs. Barclay, you are not comfortable here?"

"As well as I can expect," she said, in her quiet, sad manner. Thesadness was not obtrusive, not on the surface; it was only thebackground to everything.

"But it is not comfort. I am not insulting you with pity, mind; but Iam thinking. Would you not like better to be in the country? in somepleasant place?"

"You do not call this a pleasant place?" she said, with her faintsmile. "Now I do. When I get up here, and shut the door, I am my ownmistress."

"Would you not like the country?"

"It is out of my reach, Philip. I must do something, you know, to keepeven this refuge."

"I think you said you would not be averse to doing something in theline of giving instruction?"

"If I had the right pupils. But there is no chance of that. There aretoo many competitors. The city is overstocked."

"We were talking of the country."

"Yes, but it is still less possible in the country. I could not findthere the sort of teaching I could do. All requisitions of that sort, people expect to have met in the city; and they come to the city forit,"

"I do not speak with certain'ty," said Philip, "but I think I know aplace that would suit you. Good air, pleasant country, comfortablequarters, and moderate charges. And if you went there, there is work."

"Where is it?"

"On the Connecticut shore – far down the Sound. Not too far from New

York, though; perfectly accessible."