DOWN AT ALLINGTON.
It was Christmas-time down at Allington, and at three o'clock on
Christmas Eve, just as the darkness of the early winter evening was
coming on, Lily Dale and Grace Crawley were seated together, one
above the other, on the steps leading up to the pulpit in Allington
Church. They had been working all day at the decorations of the
church, and they were now looking round them at the result of their
handiwork. To an eye unused to the gloom the place would have been
nearly dark; but they could see every corner turned by the ivy
sprigs, and every line on which the holly-leaves were shining.
And the greeneries of the winter had not been stuck up in the
old-fashioned, idle way, a bough just fastened up here and a twig
inserted there; but everything had been done with some meaning, with
some thought towards the original architecture of the building. The
Gothic lines had been followed, and all the lower arches which it had
been possible to reach with an ordinary ladder had been turned as
truly with the laurel cuttings as they had been turned originally
with the stone.
"I wouldn't tie another twig," said the elder girl, "for all the
Christmas pudding that was ever boiled."
"It's lucky then that there isn't another twig to tie."
"I don't know about that. I see a score of places where the work has
been scamped. This is the sixth time I have done the church, and I
don't think I'll ever do it again. When we first began it, Bell and
I, you know,--before Bell was married,--Mrs. Boyce, and the Boycian
establishment generally, used to come and help. Or rather we used to
help her. Now she hardly ever looks after it at all."
"She is older, I suppose."
"She's a little older, and a deal idler. How idle people do get!
Look at him. Since he has had a curate he hardly ever stirs round
the parish. And he is getting so fat that-- H--sh! Here she is
herself,--come to give her judgment upon us." Then a stout lady, the
wife of the vicar, walked slowly up the aisle. "Well, girls," she
said, "you have worked hard, and I am sure Mr. Boyce will be very
much obliged to you."
"Mr. Boyce, indeed!" said Lily Dale. "We shall expect the whole
parish to rise from their seats and thank us. Why didn't Jane and
Bessy come and help us?"
"They were so tired when they came in from the coal club. Besides,
they don't care for this kind of thing,--not as you do."
"Jane is utilitarian to the backbone, I know," said Lily, "and Bessy
doesn't like getting up ladders."
"As for ladders," said Mrs. Boyce, defending her daughter, "I am not
quite sure that Bessy isn't right. You don't mean to say that you did
all those in the capitals yourself?"
"Every twig, with Hopkins to hold the ladder and cut the sticks; and
as Hopkins is just a hundred and one years old, we could have done it
pretty nearly as well alone."
"I do not think that," said Grace.
"He has been grumbling all the time," said Lily, "and swears he never
will have the laurels so robbed again. Five or six years ago he used
to declare that death would certainly save him from the pain of such
another desecration before the next Christmas; but he has given up
that foolish notion now, and talks as though he meant to protect the
Allington shrubs at any rate to the end of this century."
"I am sure we gave our share from the parsonage," said Mrs. Boyce,
who never understood a joke.
"All the best came from the parsonage, as of course they ought," said
Lily. "But Hopkins had to make up the deficiency. And as my uncle
told him to take the haycart for them instead of the hand-barrow, he
is broken-hearted."
"I am sure he was very good-natured," said Grace.
"Nevertheless he is broken-hearted; and I am very good-natured too,
and I am broken-backed. Who is going to preach to-morrow morning,
Mrs. Boyce?"
"Mr. Swanton will preach in the morning."
"Tell him not to be long, because of the children's pudding. Tell Mr.
Boyce if he is long, we won't any of us come next Sunday."
"My dear, how can you say such wicked things! I shall not tell him
anything of the kind."
"That's not wicked, Mrs. Boyce. If I were to say I had eaten so much
lunch that I didn't want any dinner, you'd understand that. If Mr.
Swanton will preach for three-quarters of an hour--"
"He only preached for three-quarters of an hour once, Lily."
"He has been over the half-hour every Sunday since he has been here.
His average is over forty minutes, and I say it's a shame."
"It is not a shame at all, Lily," said Mrs. Boyce, becoming very
serious.
"Look at my uncle; he doesn't like to go to sleep, and he has to
suffer a purgatory in keeping himself awake."
"If your uncle is heavy, how can Mr. Swanton help it? If Mr. Dale's
mind were on the subject he would not sleep."
"Come, Mrs. Boyce; there's somebody else sleeps sometimes besides my
uncle. When Mr. Boyce puts up his finger and just touches his nose,
I know as well as possible why he does it."
"Lily Dale, you have no business to say so. It is not true. I don't
know how you can bring yourself to talk in that way of your own
clergyman. If I were to tell your mamma she would be shocked."
"You won't be so ill-natured, Mrs. Boyce,--after all that I've done
for the church."
"If you'd think more about the clergyman, Lily, and less about the
church," said Mrs. Boyce very sententiously, "more about the matter
and less about the manner, more of the reality and less of the form,
I think you'd find that your religion would go further with you. Miss
Crawley is the daughter of a clergyman, and I'm sure she'll agree
with me."
"If she agrees with anybody in scolding me I'll quarrel with her."
"I didn't mean to scold you, Lily."
"I don't mind it from you, Mrs. Boyce. Indeed, I rather like it. It
is a sort of pastoral visitation; and as Mr. Boyce never scolds me
himself, of course I take it as coming from him by attorney." Then
there was silence for a minute or two, during which Mrs. Boyce was
endeavouring to discover whether Miss Dale was laughing at her or
not. As she was not quite certain, she thought at last that she would
let the suspected fault pass unobserved. "Don't wait for us, Mrs.
Boyce," said Lily. "We must remain till Hopkins has sent Gregory to
sweep the church out and take away the rubbish. We'll see that the
key is left at Mrs. Giles's."
"Thank you, my dear. Then I may as well go. I thought I'd come in
and see that it was all right. I'm sure Mr. Boyce will be very much
obliged to you and Miss Crawley. Good-night, my dear."
"Good-night, Mrs. Boyce; and be sure you don't let Mr. Swanton be
long to-morrow." To this parting shot Mrs. Boyce made no rejoinder;
but she hurried out of the church somewhat the quicker for it, and
closed the door after her with something of a slam.
Of all persons clergymen are the most irreverent in the handling of
things supposed to be sacred, and next to them clergymen's wives, and
after them those other ladies, old or young, who take upon themselves
semi-clerical duties. And it is natural that it should be so; for is
it not said that familiarity does breed contempt? When a parson takes
his lay friend over his church on a week day, how much less of the
spirit of genuflexion and head-uncovering the clergyman will display
than the layman! The parson pulls about the woodwork and knocks about
the stonework, as though it were mere wood and stone; and talks
aloud in the aisle, and treats even the reading-desk as a common
thing; whereas the visitor whispers gently, and carries himself as
though even in looking at a church he was bound to regard himself as
performing some service that was half divine. Now Lily Dale and Grace
Crawley were both accustomed to churches, and had been so long at
work in this church for the last two days, that the building had lost
to them much of its sacredness, and they were almost as irreverent as
though they were two curates.
"I am so glad she has gone," said Lily. "We shall have to stop here
for the next hour, as Gregory won't know what to take away and what
to leave. I was so afraid she was going to stop and see us off the
premises."
"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 want to fall in love, she ought not to care for any other
fun in the world. If anybody made out a list of the old ladies in
these parts, they'd put down Lady Julia, and mamma, and Mrs. Boyce,
and me, and old Mrs. Hearne. The very children have an awful respect
for me, and give over playing directly they see me. Well, mamma,
we've done at last, and I have had such a scolding from Mrs. Boyce."
"I daresay you deserved it, my dear."
"No, I did not, mamma. Ask Grace if I did."
"Was she not saucy to Mrs. Boyce, Miss Crawley?"
"She said that Mr. Boyce scratches his nose in church," said Grace.
"So he does; and goes to sleep, too."
"If you told Mrs. Boyce that, Lily, I think she was quite right to
scold you."
Such was Miss Lily Dale, with whom Grace Crawley was staying;--Lily
Dale with whom Mr. John Eames, of the Income-tax Office, had been
so long and so steadily in love, that he was regarded among his
fellow-clerks as a miracle of constancy,--who had, herself, in former
days been so unfortunate in love as to have been regarded among her
friends in the country as the most ill-used of women. As John Eames
had been able to be comfortable in life,--that is to say, not utterly
a wretch,--in spite of his love, so had she managed to hold up her
head, and live as other young women live, in spite of her misfortune.
But as it may be said also that his constancy was true constancy,
although he knew how to enjoy the good things of the world, so also
had her misfortune been a true misfortune, although she had been able
to bear it without much outer show of shipwreck. For a few days,--for
a week or two, when the blow first struck her, she had been knocked
down, and the friends who were nearest to her had thought that she
would never again stand erect upon her feet. But she had been very
strong, stout at heart, of a fixed purpose, and capable of resistance
against oppression. Even her own mother had been astonished, and
sometimes almost dismayed, by the strength of her will. Her mother
knew well how it was with her now; but they who saw her frequently,
and who did not know her as her mother knew her,--the Mrs. Boyces of
her acquaintance,--whispered among themselves that Lily Dale was not
so soft of heart as people used to think.
On the next day, Christmas Day, as the reader will remember, Grace
Crawley was taken up to dine at the big house with the old squire.
Mrs. Dale's eldest daughter, with her husband, Dr. Crofts, was to be
there; and also Lily's old friend, who was also especially the old
friend of Johnny Eames, Lady Julia De Guest. Grace had endeavoured to
be excused from the party, pleading many pleas. But the upshot of all
her pleas was this,--that while her father's position was so painful
she ought not to go out anywhere. In answer to this, Lily Dale,
corroborated by her mother, assured her that for her father's sake
she ought not to exhibit any such feeling; that in doing so, she
would seem to express a doubt as to her father's innocence. Then she
allowed herself to be persuaded, telling her friend, however, that
she knew the day would be very miserable to her. "It will be very
humdrum, if you please," said Lily. "Nothing can be more humdrum than
Christmas at the Great House. Nevertheless, you must go."
Coming out of church, Grace was introduced to the old squire. He
was a thin, old man, with grey hair, and the smallest possible grey
whiskers, with a dry, solemn face; not carrying in his outward gait
much of the customary jollity of Christmas. He took his hat off to
Grace, and said some word to her as to hoping to have the pleasure
of seeing her at dinner. It sounded very cold to her, and she became
at once afraid of him. "I wish I was not going," she said to Lily,
again. "I know he thinks I ought not to go. I shall be so thankful if
you will but let me stay."
[Illustration: Grace Crawley is introduced to Squire Dale.]
"Don't be foolish, Grace. It all comes from your not knowing him, or
understanding him. And how should you understand him? I give you my
word that I would tell you if I did not know that he wishes you to
go."
She had to go. "Of course I haven't a dress fit. How should I?" she
said to Lily. "How wrong it is of me to put myself up to such a thing
as this."
"Your dress is beautiful, child. We are none of us going in evening
dresses. Pray believe that I will not make you do wrong. If you won't
trust me, can't you trust mamma?"
Of course she went. When the three ladies entered the drawing-room of
the Great House they found that Lady Julia had arrived just before
them. Lady Julia immediately took hold of Lily, and led her apart,
having a word or two to say about the clerk in the Income-tax Office.
I am not sure but what the dear old woman sometimes said a few more
words than were expedient, with a view to the object which she had so
closely at heart. "John is to be with us the first week in February,"
she said. "I suppose you'll see him before that, as he'll probably be
with his mother a few days before he comes to me."
"I daresay we shall see him quite in time, Lady Julia," said Lily.
"Now, Lily, don't be ill-natured."
"I'm the most good-natured young woman alive, Lady Julia, and as for
Johnny, he is always made as welcome at the Small House as violets
in March. Mamma purrs about him when he comes, asking all manner of
flattering questions as though he were a cabinet minister at least,
and I always admire some little knicknack that he has got, a new
ring, or a stud, or a button. There isn't another man in all the
world whose buttons I'd look at."
"It isn't his buttons, Lily."
"Ah, that's just it. I can go as far as his buttons. But come, Lady
Julia, this is Christmas-time, and Christmas should be a holiday."
In the meantime Mrs. Dale was occupied with her married daughter and
her son-in-law, and the squire had attached himself to poor Grace.
"You have never been in this part of the country before, Miss
Crawley," he said.
"No, sir."
"It is rather pretty just about here, and Guestwick Manor is a fine
place in its way, but we have not so much natural beauty as you have
in Barsetshire. Chaldicote Chase is, I think, as pretty as anything
in England."
"I never saw Chaldicote Chase, sir. It isn't pretty at all at
Hogglestock, where we live."
"Ah, I forgot. No; it is not very pretty at Hogglestock. That's where
the bricks come from."
"Papa is clergyman at Hogglestock."
"Yes, yes; I remember. Your father is a great scholar. I have often
heard of him. I am so sorry he should be distressed by this charge
they have made. But it will all come right at the assizes. They
always get at the truth there. I used to be intimate with a clergyman
in Barsetshire of the name of Grantly;"--Grace felt that her ears
were tingling, and that her face was red;--"Archdeacon Grantly. His
father was bishop of the diocese."
"Yes, sir. Archdeacon Grantly lives at Plumstead."
"I was staying once with an old friend of mine, Mr. Thorne of
Ullathorne, who lives close to Plumstead, and saw a good deal of
them. I remember thinking Henry Grantly was a very nice lad. He
married afterwards."
"Yes, sir; but his wife is dead now, and he has got a little
girl,--Edith Grantly."
"Is there no other child?"
"No, sir; only Edith."
"You know him, then?"
"Yes, sir; I know Major Grantly,--and Edith. I never saw Archdeacon
Grantly."
"Then, my dear, you never saw a very famous pillar of the church.
I remember when people used to talk a great deal about Archdeacon
Grantly; but when his time came to be made a bishop, he was not
sufficiently new-fangled; and so he got passed by. He is much better
off as he is, I should say. Bishops have to work very hard, my dear."
"Do they, sir?"
"So they tell me. And the archdeacon is a wealthy man. So Henry
Grantly has got an only daughter? I hope she is a nice child, for
I remember liking him well."
"She is a very nice child, indeed, Mr. Dale. She could not be
nicer. And she is so lovely." Then Mr. Dale looked into his young
companion's face, struck by the sudden animation of her words, and
perceived for the first time that she was very pretty.
After this Grace became accustomed to the strangeness of the faces
round her, and managed to eat her dinner without much perturbation of
spirit. When after dinner the squire proposed to her that they should
drink the health of her papa and mamma, she was almost reduced to
tears, and yet she liked him for doing it. It was terrible to her to
have them mentioned, knowing as she did that every one who mentioned
them must be aware of their misery,--for the misfortune of her father
had become notorious in the country; but it was almost more terrible
to her that no allusion should be made to them; for then she would be
driven to think that her father was regarded as a man whom the world
could not afford to mention. "Papa and mamma," she just murmured,
raising her glass to her lips. "Grace, dear," said Lily from across
the table, "here's papa and mamma, and the young man at Marlborough
who is carrying everything before him." "Yes; we won't forget the
young man at Marlborough," said the squire. Grace felt this to be
good-natured, because her brother at Marlborough was the one bright
spot in her family,--and she was comforted.
"And we will drink the health of my friend, John Eames," said Lady
Julia.
"John Eames' health," said the squire, in a low voice.
"Johnny's health," said Mrs. Dale; but Mrs. Dale's voice was not very
brisk.
"John's health," said Dr. Crofts and Mrs. Crofts in a breath.
"Here's the health of Johnny Eames," said Lily; and her voice was the
clearest and the boldest of them all. But she made up her mind that
if Lady Julia could not be induced to spare her for the future, she
and Lady Julia must quarrel. "No one can understand," she said to her
mother that evening, "how dreadful it is,--this being constantly told
before one's family and friends that one ought to marry a certain
young man."
"She didn't say that, my dear."
"I should much prefer that she should, for then I could get up on
my legs and answer her off the reel." Of course everybody there
understood what she meant,--including old John Bates, who stood at
the sideboard and coolly drank the toast himself.
"He always does that to all the family toasts on Christmas Day. Your
uncle likes it."
"That wasn't a family toast, and John Bates had no right to drink
it."
After dinner they all played cards,--a round game,--and the squire
put in the stakes. "Now, Grace," said Lily, "you are the visitor and
you must win, or else uncle Christopher won't be happy. He always
likes a young lady visitor to win."
"But I never played a game of cards in my life."
"Go and sit next to him and he'll teach you. Uncle Christopher, won't
you teach Grace Crawley? She never saw a Pope Joan board in her life
before."
"Come here, my dear, and sit next to me. Dear, dear, dear; fancy
Henry Grantly having a little girl. What a handsome lad he was. And
it seems only yesterday." If it was so that Lily had said a word to
her uncle about Grace and the major, the old squire had become on a
sudden very sly. Be that as it may, Grace Crawley thought that he was
a pleasant old man; and though, while talking to him about Edith, she
persisted in not learning to play Pope Joan, so that he could not
contrive that she should win, nevertheless the squire took to her
very kindly, and told her to come up with Lily and see him sometimes
while she was staying at the Small House. The squire in speaking of
his sister-in-law's cottage always called it the Small House.
"Only think of my winning," said Lady Julia, drawing together her
wealth. "Well, I'm sure I want it bad enough, for I don't at all know
whether I've got any income of my own. It's all John Eames' fault, my
dear, for he won't go and make those people settle it in Lincoln's
Inn Fields." Poor Lily, who was standing on the hearth-rug, touched
her mother's arm. She knew that Johnny's name was lugged in with
reference to Lady Julia's money altogether for her benefit. "I
wonder whether she ever had a Johnny of her own," she said to her
mother, "and, if so, whether she liked it when her friends sent the
town-crier round to talk about him."
"She means to be good-natured," said Mrs. Dale.
"Of course she does. But it is such a pity when people won't
understand."
"My uncle didn't bite you after all, Grace," said Lily to her friend
as they were going home at night, by the pathway which led from the
garden of one house to the garden of the other.
"I like Mr. Dale very much," said Grace. "He was very kind to me."
"There is some queer-looking animal of whom they say that he is
better than he looks, and I always think of that saying when I think
of my uncle."
"For shame, Lily," said her mother. "Your uncle, for his age, is as
good a looking man as I know. And he always looks like just what he
is,--an English gentleman."
"I didn't mean to say a word against his dear old face and figure,
mamma; but his heart, and mind, and general disposition, as they come
out in experience and days of trial, are so much better than the
samples of them which he puts out on the counter for men and women
to judge by. He wears well, and he washes well,--if you know what I
mean, Grace."
"Yes; I think I know what you mean."
"The Apollos of the world,--I don't mean in outward looks,
mamma,--but the Apollos in heart, the men,--and the women too,--who
are so full of feeling, so soft-natured, so kind, who never say
a cross word, who never get out of bed on the wrong side in the
morning,--it so often turns out that they won't wash."
Such was the expression of Miss Lily Dale's experience.