ALONE.

"The spirit of a man will sustain his infirmity, but a wounded spirit

who can bear?"--_Proverbs_.

A few days after this Lilac sat on her little stool in her accustomed

corner, listening in a dreamy way to the muffled voices of Mrs Pinhorn

and Mrs Wishing. They spoke low, not because they did not wish her to

hear, but because, having just come from her mother's funeral, they felt

it befitted the occasion. As they talked they stitched busily at some

"black" which they were helping her to make, only pausing now and then

to glance round at her as though she were some strange animal, shake

their heads, and sigh heavily. Lilac had not cried much since her

mother's death, and was supposed by the neighbours to be taking it

wonderful easy-like. For the twentieth time Mrs Wishing was entering

slowly and fully into every detail connected with it--of all the doctor

had said of its having been caused by heart disease, of all she had said

herself, of all Mr Leigh had said; and if she paused a moment Mrs

Pinhorn at once asked another question. For it was Mrs Wishing, who,

running in as usual to borrow something, had found Mrs White on May

morning sitting peacefully in her chair, quite dead.

"And it do strike so mournful," she repeated, "to think of the child

junketing up on the hill, and May Queen an' all, an' that poor soul an

alone."

"It's a thing one doesn't rightly understand, that is," said Mrs

Pinhorn, "why both Lilac's parents should have been took so sudden."

She gave a sharp glance round the room--"I suppose," she added, "the

Greenways'll have the sticks. There's a goodish few, and well kep'.

Mary White was always one for storing her things."

"I never heard of no other kin," said Mrs Wishing.

"Lilac's lucky to get a home like Orchards Farm. But there! Some is

born lucky."

The conversation continued in the same strain until Mrs Wishing

discovered that she must go home and get Dan'l's supper ready.

"An' it's time I was starting too," added Mrs Pinhorn. "I've got a

goodish bit to walk."

They both looked hesitatingly at Lilac.

"You'll come alonger me and sleep, won't you, dearie?" said Mrs Wishing

coaxingly. "It's lonesome for you here."

But Lilac shook her head. "I'd rather bide here, thank you," was all

she said; and after trying many forms of persuasion the two women left

her unwillingly and took their way.

Lilac stood at the open door and watched them out of sight, but she was

not thinking of them at all, though she still seemed to hear Mrs

Wishing's words: "It's lonesome for you here." Her head felt strange

and dizzy, almost as though she had been stunned, and it was stranger

still to find that she could not cry although Mother was dead. She knew

it very well, everyone had talked of it to her. Mr Leigh had spoken

very kind, and Mrs Leigh had given her a black frock, and all the

neighbours at the church that morning had groaned and cried and pitied

her; but Lilac herself had hardly shed a tear, though she felt it was

expected of her, and saw that people were surprised to see her so quiet.

She tried every now and then to get it into her head, and to understand

it, but she could not. It seemed to be someone else that folks spoke

of, and not Mother. As she stood by the open door, each thing her eye

rested on seemed to have something to do with her and to promise her

return. There was the hill she had toiled up so often: surely she would

come again with a tired footstep, but always a smile for Lilac. There

was the little garden and the sweet-peas she had sown, just showing

green above the earth: would she never see them bloom? There on the

window sill were her knitting-pins and a half-finished stocking: was it

possible that Lilac would never hear them click again in her busy

fingers? There, most familiar object of all, was the clothes line.

Lilac could almost fancy she saw her mother's straight active figure, as

she had done scores of times, stretching up her arms to fasten the

clothes with wooden pegs, her skirt tucked up, her arms bare, her

sunbonnet tilted over her eyes. No--it was quite impossible to feel

that she would really never come back; it seemed much more likely that

by and by she would walk in at the door and sit down by the window in

her high-backed Windsor chair, and take up the unfinished knitting. As

Lilac was thinking thus, a figure did really appear at the top of the

hill, a short square figure with a gaily trimmed hat on its head--her

cousin Agnetta.

For the first time in all her life Agnetta was feeling not superior to

Lilac as usual, but shy of her. She did not know what to say to her nor

even whether she should be welcome, for she was conscious of having been

very ill-tempered lately. Now that Lilac was in trouble, cast down from

her high position as Queen, she no longer felt angry with her, and would

even have liked to make herself pleasant--if she could. As she came

near, however, and stood staring at her cousin, she felt that somehow

there was a great difference in her, something which she could not

understand. There was a look in Lilac's small white face which made it

impossible to speak to her in the old patronising tone; it was as though

she had been somewhere and seen something to which Agnetta was a

stranger, and which could never be explained to her. It made her

uncomfortable, and almost afraid to say anything; and yet, she

remembered, Lilac was very low down in the world now--there was less

reason than ever to stand in awe of her. She was only poor little Lilac

White, with nothing in the world she could call her own, an orphan, and

dependent for a home on Agnetta's father. So after these reflections

she took courage and spoke: "Mamma said I was to tell you that she'll be

up to-morrow morning to look at the furniture, and you must be ready in

the afternoon to come down alonger Ben when he brings the cart."

Lilac nodded, and the two girls stood silently on the doorstep for a

moment; then Agnetta spoke again:

"I s'pose you're glad you're coming to live at the farm, ain't ye?"

"No," answered Lilac, "I don't know as I be. I'd rather bide here."

Agnetta had recovered her courage with her voice. She stepped uninvited

past Lilac into the room and cast a curious look round.

"Lor'!" she said, "don't it look mournful! I should think you'd be glad

to get away."

Lilac did not answer.

"What's this?" asked Agnetta, pouncing on the needlework which the two

women had left on the table.

"It's a frock for me," said Lilac. "Mrs Leigh give it to me."

Agnetta held the skirt out at arm's length and looked at it critically.

"Well!" she exclaimed with some scorn in her voice, "I should a thought

you'd a had it made different now."

"Different?" said Lilac enquiringly.

"Why, there's no reason you shouldn't have it cut more stylish, is

there, now there's no one to mind?"

No one to mind! Lilac looked at her cousin with dazed eyes for a

moment, as if she hardly understood--then she took the stuff out of her

hand.

"I'll never have 'em made different," she cried with a sudden flash in

her eyes; "I never, never will." And then to Agnetta's great surprise

she suddenly burst into tears.

Agnetta stood staring at her, puzzled. She was sorry, only what had

made Lilac cry just now when she had been quite calm hitherto?

"Don't take on so," she ventured to say presently; "and you'll spoil

your black. It'll stain dreadful."

But Lilac took no more notice than if she had not been there, and soon,

feeling that she could do nothing, Agnetta left her and took her way

home. She had accomplished something by her visit, though she did not

know it, for she had made Lilac feel now that it really was true.

Mother would not come back. She was alone in the world. There was no

one, as Agnetta had said, "to mind."

She began to understand it now, and the clearer it was the harder it was

to bear. So she bowed her head on the table, amongst the black stuff in

spite of Agnetta's caution, and cried on. And presently another thing,

which she had not realised till now, stood out plainly before her. She

was to go away to-morrow and live at Orchards Farm. Orchards Farm,

which she had always fancied the most beautiful place in the world, and

beside which her own home had seemed poor and small! Now all that had

changed, and the more she thought of it the more she felt that she did

not want to leave the cottage. It had suddenly become dear and

precious; for all the things in it, even the meanest and smallest,

seemed full of her mother's voice and presence. Orchards Farm was a

strange country now, with nothing in it that her mother had loved or

that loved her, and to go there would be like going still farther from

her. Raising her eyes she looked round at the familiar room, at her

mother's chair, at her own little stool, at the plants in the window.

They all seemed to say: "Don't go, Lilac. It is better to stay here."

Must she go? Then suddenly she caught sight of the lilac crown lying

dusty and withered in a corner. It reminded her of a friend. "I'll ask

Uncle Joshua," she said to herself; "I'll go early to-morrow morning and

ask him. _He'll_ know."

Joshua had a very decided opinion on the question placed before him next

day: Could Lilac live alone at the cottage and take in the washing as

her mother used to do?

"I can reach the line quite easy if I stand on a stool," she said

anxiously; "and Mrs Wishing, she'd help me wring."

"Bless you, my maid," he said, "you're not old enough to make a living,

or strong enough, or wise enough yet. The proper place for you is your

Uncle Greenways' house, till such time as you come to be older."

"Mother, she always said, `Don't be beholden to no one. Stand on your

own feet.' That's what she said ever so often," faltered Lilac.

The cobbler smiled as he looked at the slight little figure. "Well, you

must wait a bit. If Mother could speak to you now, she'd say as I do.

And you won't be no farther from her at the farm; wherever and whenever

you think of her and mind what she said, and how she liked you to act,

that's her voice talking to you still. You listen and do as she bids,

and that'll make her happier and you too."

Joshua set to work again with feverish haste as he finished. He did not

like parting with Lilac, and it was difficult to say goodbye. She

lingered, looking wistfully at him.

"You'll come and see me down yonder, won't you, Uncle Joshua?"

"Why, surely, surely," replied Joshua hastily; "and you'll come and see

me. It ain't so far after all. Bless me!" he added with a testy glance

at the dusty pane in front of him, "what ails the window this morning?

It don't give no light whatever."

In a moment Lilac had fetched a duster and rubbed the little window

bright and clear. It was a small office she had often performed for the

cobbler.

"It wasn't, not to say very dirty," she said; "but you'll have to do it

yourself next time, Uncle Joshua."

When she got back to the cottage, she felt a little comforted by the

cobbler's words, although he had not fallen in with her plan. What

could she do at once, she wondered, that would please her mother? She

looked round the room. It had a forlorn appearance. The doorstep,

trodden by so many feet lately, was muddy, there was dust on the

furniture, and the floor had not been swept for days. Mother certainly

would not like that, and Lilac felt she could not leave it so another

minute. With new energy she seized broom, brushes, and pail and went to

work, going carefully into all the corners, and doing everything just as

she had been taught. Very soon it all looked like itself again, bright

and orderly, and with a sigh of satisfaction she went upstairs to put

herself "straight" before her aunt came.

When there another idea struck her, for the moment she looked at the

glass she remembered how Mother had hated the fringe. Surely she could

brush it back now that her hair had grown longer. No, brush as hard as

she would it fell obstinately over her forehead again. But Lilac was

not to be conquered. She scraped it back once more, and tied a piece of

ribbon firmly round her head; then she nodded triumphantly at herself in

the glass. It was ugly, but anyhow it was neat.

She had just finished this arrangement when a noise in the room below

warned her of Mrs Greenways' approach, and running downstairs she found

her seated breathless in the high-backed chair. One foot was stretched

out appealingly in front of her, and she was so fatigued that at first

she could only nod speechlessly at Lilac.

"I'm fairly spent," she said at last, "with that terr'ble hill. I can't

wonder myself that your poor mother was taken so sudden with her heart,

though she was always a spare figure."

Lilac said nothing; the old feeling came back to her that it was someone

else and not Mother who was spoken of.

Mrs Greenways looked thoughtfully round the room; her eye rested on

each piece of furniture in turn. "They're good solid things, and well

kept," she said. "I will say for Mary White as she knew how to keep her

things. We can do with a good many of 'em at the farm," she went on

after a pause; "but I don't want to be cluttered up with furniture, and

the rest we must sell as it stands."

Lilac's heart sank. She could not bear to think of any of Mother's

things being sold, but she was too much in awe of her aunt to say

anything.

"So I've come up this morning," pursued Mrs Greenways, producing an old

envelope and a stumpy pencil; "just to jot down what I want to keep.

And when I've done here, and fetched my breath a little, I'll go

upstairs and have a look round."

Mrs Greenways made her list, and then with a businesslike air tied

pieces of tape on all the things she had chosen. Lilac saw with dismay

that her own little stool and the high-backed chair were left out. It

was almost like leaving two old friends behind.

"Have you packed your clothes?" asked Mrs Greenways.

"No, Aunt, not yet," said Lilac.

"Well, I shall have to send Ben up with the cart this afternoon for your

box, so you may as well come alonger him. And mind this, Lilac. Don't

you go bringin' any litter and rubbish with you. Jest your clothes and

no more, and your Bible and Prayer Book. And now I'll go upstairs."

Mrs Greenways went upstairs, followed meekly by Lilac. She watched

passively while her aunt punched all the mattresses, placed a searching

finger beneath every sheet and blanket, sat down in the chairs, and

finally examined every article of Mrs White's wardrobe. "'Tain't any

of it much good to me," she said, holding up a cotton gown to the light.

"They're all cut so antiquated, and she was never anything of a figure.

You may as well keep 'em, Lilac, and they'll come in for you later."

It made Lilac's heart ache sorely to see her mother's clothes in Mrs

Greenways' hands turned about and talked over. There was one gown in

particular, with a blue spot. Mrs White had worn it on that last May

morning when she had stood at the gate, and it seemed almost a part of

her. When her aunt dropped it carelessly on the ground after her last

remark, Lilac picked it up and held it closely to her.

"And her Sunday bonnet now," continued Mrs Greenways discontentedly.

"All the ribbons is fresh and it's a good straw, but I don't suppose I

shall look anything but a scarecrow in it."

She perched it on her head as she spoke, and turned about before the

glass.

"'Tain't so bad," she murmured, with a glance at Lilac for approval.

There was no answer; for to her great surprise Mrs Greenways found that

her niece had hidden her face in the blue cotton gown she held to her

breast, and was sobbing quietly.

Mrs Greenways was a kind-hearted woman in spite of her coarse nature.

She could not exactly see what had made Lilac cry just now, but she went

up to her and spoke soothingly.

"There, there," she said, "it's natural to take on, but you'll be better

soon, when you get down to the farm alonger Agnetta. You must think of

all you've got to be thankful for. And now I should relish a cup o'

tea, for I started away early; so we'll go down and you'll get it for

me, I dessay. I brought a little in my pocket in case you should be out

of it. I shouldn't wonder if Bella was able to give this a bit of

style,"--taking off the bonnet. "She's wonderful clever with her

fingers."

Mrs Greenways drank her tea, made Lilac take some and eat some bread

and butter, which she wished to refuse but dared not.

"Now you feel better, don't you?" she said good-naturedly. "And before

I start off home, Lilac, I've got a word to say, and that is that I hope

you're proper and thankful for all your uncle's going to do for you."

"Yes, Aunt," said Lilac.

"If it wasn't for him, you know, there'd only be the house for you to go

to. Just think o' that! What a disgrace it 'ud be! It's a great

expense to have an extry mouth to feed and a growing girl to clothe in

these bad times, but we must put up with it."

"I can work, Aunt," said Lilac. "I can do lots of things."

"Well, I hope you'll do what you can," replied Mrs Greenways.

"Because, as you haven't a penny of your own, you ought to do summat in

return for your uncle's charity. That's only fair and right, isn't it?"

Her mother's words came into Lilac's mind: "Don't be beholden to no

one."

"I don't mind work, Aunt," she repeated more boldly. "I'd rather work.

Mother, she always taught me to."

"Well, that's a good thing," said Mrs Greenways. "Because, now you're

left so desolate, you've got nothing to look to but your own hands and

feet. But as to being any help--you're small and young, you see, and

you can't be anything but a burden to us for years to come."

A burden! That was a new idea to Lilac.

"And so," finished Mrs Greenways, rising, "I hope as how you'll be a

good gal, and grateful, and always remember that if it wasn't for us

you'd be on the parish, instead of at Orchards Farm."

She made her way out of the door, and stopped at the garden gate to call

back over her shoulder:

"Mind and bring no rubbish along with you. Nothing but clothes."

Lilac's tears dropped fast into the painted deal box as she packed her

small stock of clothes. But she felt that she must not wait to cry; she

must be ready by the time Ben came, and her aunt's visit had been so

long that it was already late. When she had finished she went

downstairs to take a last look round. There stood all the well-known

pieces of furniture, dumb, yet full of speech; they had seen and heard

so much that was dear to her, that it seemed cruel to leave them to

strangers. Above all she looked wistfully at a small twisted cactus in

a pot standing on the window ledge. Mrs White had been fond of it, and

had given it much care and attention. Might she venture to take it with

her? How pleased Mother had been, she remembered, when the cactus had

once rewarded her by producing two bright-red blossoms. That was long

ago, and it had never done anything so brilliant again. Content with

its one effort it had since remained unadorned, yet as it stood there,

with its fat green leaves and little bunches of prickles, it had the air

of saying to itself, "I have done it once, and if I liked I could do it

a second time." Even now as she bent tenderly over it Lilac thought she

could make out the faint beginning of a bud.

"I do wish I could take it," she said to herself. "If it was only in

bloom maybe they'd like it."

But the cactus was very far from blooming, and perhaps had no intention

of doing so; in its present condition it would certainly be considered

"rubbish" at Orchards Farm.

Lilac turned from it with a sigh, and glancing through the window was

startled to see that the cart with Ben sitting in it was already at the

gate. Ben looked as though he might have been waiting there for some

hours, and was content to wait for any length of time. She ran out in

alarm.

"Oh, Ben!" she cried, "I never heard you. Have you been here long?"

"Not I," said Ben; "on'y just come. Missus she give orders as how I was

to fetch down some cheers alonger you, so as to lighten the next load a

bit."

By the time he had slowly stacked the chairs together, and disposed them

round Lilac's box in the cart, which cost him much painful thought,

there was not much room left.

"Now then, missie," he said at length, "that's the lot, ain't it?"

"Where am I to sit, Ben?" asked Lilac doubtfully. Ben took off his hat

to scratch his head. He had a perfectly round, foolish face, with short

dust-coloured whiskers.

"That's so," he said. "I clean forgot you was to go too."

A corner was at last found amongst the chairs, and Ben having hoisted

himself on to the shaft they started slowly on their way. Lilac kept

her eyes fixed on the cottage until a turn of the road hid it from her

sight. It was just there she had turned to look at Mother on May Day.

What a long, long time ago, and what a different Lilac she felt now!

Grave and old, with all manner of cares and troubles waiting for her,

and no one to mind if she were glad or sorry. No one to want her much

or to be pleased at her coming. A burden instead of a blessing. She

clung to the hope that Agnetta at least would not think her so, but

would welcome her to her new home and be kind to her; but she was the

only one of whom she thought without shrinking. Her aunt and uncle,

Bella and Peter, above all the last, were people to be afraid of.

"Here's the young master," said Ben, suddenly turning his face round to

look at her. "He be coming up to fetch the rest of the sticks."

Lilac peeped out through the various legs of chairs which surrounded

her; towards her, crawling slowly up the hill, came a wagon drawn by

three iron-grey horses, and by their side a broad-shouldered, lumbering

figure. It was her Cousin Peter. Of course it was Peter, she thought

impatiently, turning her head away. No one else would walk up the hill

instead of riding in the empty wagon. The descent now becoming easier

Ben whipped up his horse, and they soon jolted past Peter and his team.

"There's been a sight o' deaths lately in the village," he resumed

cheerfully, having once broken the silence. "I dunno as I can ever call

to mind so many. The bell's forever agoin'. It's downright mournful."

He was kindly disposed towards Lilac, and having hit upon this lucky

means of entertaining her he dwelt on it for the rest of the way,

fortunately requiring no answering remarks. It seemed long before they

reached the farm, and Lilac was cramped and tired in her uneasy position

when they had at last driven in at the yard gate. There was no one to

be seen; but presently Molly, the servant girl, having spied the arrival

from the back kitchen, came and stood at the door. When she discovered

Lilac almost hidden by the chairs, she hastened out and held up a broad

red hand to help her down from the cart.

"You've brought yer house on yer back like a hoddy-dod," she said with a

grin.

Lilac clambered down with difficulty, and stood by the side of the cart

uncertain where to go. A forlorn little figure in her straight black

frock, clasping her mother's large old cotton umbrella. She wished she

could see Agnetta, but she did not appear. Soon her aunt and Bella came

into the yard, but their attention was immediately fixed on the chairs,

which Ben had now unloaded and placed in a long row by Lilac's side.

"Where were they to go?" asked Molly.

In the living-room, Mrs Greenways thought, where they were short of

chairs.

"In the bedrooms," said Bella contemptuously. "Common-looking things

like them."

"We could do with 'em in the kitchen," added Molly.

The dispute continued for some time, but in the end Bella carried the

day, and Mrs Greenways found time to notice the newcomer.

"Well, here you are, Lilac," she said. "Come along in, and Agnetta

shall show where you've got to sleep."

Agnetta led the way up the steep stairs to the top of the house. She

had rather a condescending manner as she threw open the door of a small

attic in the roof.

"This is it," she said; "and Mamma says you've got to keep it clean

yerself."

"I'd rather," said Lilac hastily. "I've always been used to."

She looked round the room. It was very like her old one at the cottage,

and its sloping ceiling and bare white walls seemed familiar and

homelike; it was a comfort, too, to see that its tiny window looked

towards the hills. As she observed all this she took off her bonnet,

and was immediately startled by a loud laugh from Agnetta.

"Well!" she exclaimed, "You have made a pretty guy of yourself."

Lilac put her hand quickly up to her head.

"Oh, I forgot--my hair," she said.

"Whatever made you do it?" asked Agnetta, planting herself full in front

of her cousin and staring at her.

"It's neater," said Lilac, avoiding the hard gaze. "I shall wear it so

till it gets longer. I'm not agoin' to have a fringe no more."

"Well!" repeated Agnetta, lost in astonishment; then she added:

"You do look comical! Just like a general servant. If I was you I'd

wear a cap!"

With this parting thrust she clattered downstairs giggling. So this was

Lilac's welcome. She went to the window, leant her arms on the broad

sill, and looked forlornly up at the hill. There was not a single

person who wanted her here, or who had taken the trouble to say a kind

word. How could she bear to live here always?

"Li-lack!" shrieked a voice up the stairs, "you're to come to tea."

Through the meal that followed Lilac sat shyly silent, feeling that

every morsel choked her, and listening to the clatter of voices and

teacups round her but hardly hearing any words. The farmer had noticed

her presence by a nod, and then resumed his newspaper. He meant to do

his duty by Mary's girl until she was old enough to go to service, but

no one could expect him to be glad of her arrival. Another useless

member of the family to support, where there were already too many.

Peter was not there at first, but when the meal was nearly over Lilac

heard the wagon roll heavily into the yard, and soon afterwards its

master came almost as heavily into the room and took his place at the

table. When there he eat largely and silently, taking huge draughts of

tea out of a great mug. This was one of his many vulgarities, which

Bella deplored but could not alter, for he required so much tea that a

cup was a ridiculous and useless thing to him, and had to be filled so

often that it gave a great deal of trouble--in this therefore he was

allowed to have his way.

When Lilac got into her attic that night she found that her deal box had

been carried up and placed in one corner, and as she began to undress in

the half-light she caught sight of something else which certainly had

not been there before. Something standing in the window twisted and

prickly, but to her most pleasant to look upon. Could it really be the

cactus? She went up to it, half afraid to find that she was mistaken.

No, it was not fancy, the cactus was there, and Lilac was so pleased to

see its ugly friendly face that tears came into her eyes. She had found

a little bit of kindness at last at Orchards Farm, and it no longer felt

quite so cold and strange. Peter no doubt had brought the plant down

from the cottage, but who had told him to do it? Her aunt, or Agnetta,

or perhaps after all it was Uncle Joshua as usual.

Whoever it was Lilac felt very grateful, and went to sleep comforted

with the thought that there was something in the room which had lived

her old life and known her mother's care, though it was only a cactus

plant.