Chapter Six.
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.”