“I don’t know why you should dislike her.”
“I don’t dislike her. I like her very well,” said Lily Dale. “But don’t you feel that there are people whom one knows very intimately, who are really friends,—for whom if they were dying one would grieve, whom if they were in misfortune one would go far to help, but with whom for all that one can have no sympathy. And yet they are so near to one that they know all the events of one’s life, and are justified by unquestioned friendship in talking about things which should never be mentioned except where sympathy exists.”
“Yes; I understand that.”
“Everybody understands it who has been unhappy. That woman sometimes says things to me that make me wish,—wish that they’d make him bishop of Patagonia. And yet she does it all in friendship, and mamma says that she is quite right.”
“I liked her for standing up for her husband.”
“But he does go to sleep,—and then he scratches his nose to show that he’s awake. I shouldn’t have said it, only she is always hinting at uncle Christopher. Uncle Christopher certainly does go to sleep when Mr. Boyce preaches, and he hasn’t studied any scientific little movements during his slumbers to make the people believe that he’s all alive. I gave him a hint one day, and he got so angry with me!”
“I shouldn’t have thought he could have been angry with you. It seems to me from what you say that you may do whatever you please with him.”
“He is very good to me. If you knew it all,—if you could understand how good he has been! I’ll try and tell you some day. It is not what he has done that makes me love him so,—but what he has thoroughly understood, and what, so understanding, he has not done, and what he has not said. It is a case of sympathy. If ever there was a gentleman uncle Christopher is one. And I used to dislike him so, at one time!”
“And why?”
“Chiefly because he would make me wear brown frocks when I wanted to have them pink or green. And he kept me for six months from having them long, and up to this day he scolds me if there is half an inch on the ground for him to tread upon.”
“I shouldn’t mind that if I were you.”
“I don’t,—not now. But it used to be serious when I was a young girl. And we thought, Bell and I, that he was cross to mamma. He and mamma didn’t agree at first, you know, as they do now. It is quite true that he did dislike mamma when we first came here.”
“I can’t think how anybody could ever dislike Mrs. Dale.”
“But he did. And then he wanted to make up a marriage between Bell and my cousin Bernard. But neither of them cared a bit for the other, and then he used to scold them,—and then,—and then,—and then—Oh, he was so good to me! Here’s Gregory at last. Gregory, we’ve been waiting this hour and a half.”
“It ain’t ten minutes since Hopkins let me come with the barrows, miss.”
“Then Hopkins is a traitor. Never mind. You’d better begin now,—up there at the steps. It’ll be quite dark in a few minutes. Here’s Mrs. Giles with her broom. Come, Mrs. Giles; we shall have to pass the night here if you don’t make haste. Are you cold, Grace?”
“No; I’m not cold. I’m thinking what they are doing now in the church at Hogglestock.”
“The Hogglestock church is not pretty;—like this?”
“Oh, no. It is a very plain brick building, with something like a pigeon-house for a belfry. And the pulpit is over the reading-desk, and the reading-desk over the clerk, so that papa, when he preaches, is nearly up to the ceiling. And the whole place is divided into pews, in which the farmers hide themselves when they come to church.”
“So that nobody can see whether they go to sleep or no. Oh, Mrs. Giles, you mustn’t pull that down. That’s what we have been putting up all day.”
“But it be in the way, miss; so that the minister can’t budge in or out o’ the door.”
“Never mind. Then he must stay one side or the other. That would be too much after all our trouble!” And Miss Dale hurried across the chancel to save some prettily arching boughs, which, in the judgment of Mrs. Giles, encroached too much on the vestry door. “As if it signified which side he was,” she said in a whisper to Grace.
“I don’t suppose they’ll have anything in the church at home,” said Grace.
“Somebody will stick up a wreath or two, I daresay.”
“Nobody will. There never is anybody at Hogglestock to stick up wreaths, or to do anything for the prettinesses of life. And now there will be less done than ever. How can mamma look after holly-leaves in her present state? And yet she will miss them, too. Poor mamma sees very little that is pretty; but she has not forgotten how pleasant pretty things are.”
“I wish I knew your mother, Grace.”
“I think it would be impossible for any one to know mamma now,—for any one who had not known her before. She never makes even a new acquaintance. She seems to think that there is nothing left for her in the world but to try and keep papa out of misery. And she does not succeed in that. Poor papa!”
“Is he very unhappy about this wicked accusation?”
“Yes; he is very unhappy. But, Lily, I don’t know about its being wicked.”
“But you know that it is untrue.”
“Of course I know that papa did not mean to take anything that was not his own. But, you see, nobody knows where it came from; and nobody except mamma and Jane and I understand how very absent papa can be. I’m sure he doesn’t know the least in the world how he came by it himself, or he would tell mamma. Do you know, Lily, I think I have been wrong to come away.”
“Don’t say that, dear. Remember how anxious Mrs. Crawley was that you should come.”
“But I cannot bear to be comfortable here while they are so wretched at home. It seems such a mockery. Every time I find myself smiling at what you say to me, I think I must be the most heartless creature in the world.”
“Is it so very bad with them, Grace?”
“Indeed it is bad. I don’t think you can imagine what mamma has to go through. She has to cook all that is eaten in the house, and then, very often, there is no money in the house to buy anything. If you were to see the clothes she wears, even that would make your heart bleed. I who have been used to being poor all my life,—even I, when I am at home, am dismayed by what she has to endure.”
“What can we do for her, Grace?”
“You can do nothing, Lily. But when things are like that at home you can understand what I feel in being here.”
Mrs. Giles and Gregory had now completed their task, or had so nearly done so as to make Miss Dale think that she might safely leave the church. “We will go in now,” she said; “for it is dark and cold, and what I call creepy. Do you ever fancy that perhaps you will see a ghost some day?”
“I don’t think I shall ever see a ghost; but all the same I should be half afraid to be here alone in the dark.”
“I am often here alone in the dark, but I am beginning to think I shall never see a ghost now. I am losing all my romance, and getting to be an old woman. Do you know, Grace, I do so hate myself for being such an old maid.”
“But who says you’re an old maid, Lily?”
“I see it in people’s eyes, and hear it in their voices. And they all talk to me as if I were very steady, and altogether removed from anything like fun and frolic. It seems to be admitted that if a girl does not