“For that matter there is a dark side,” explained Lydia, “and I’m almost glad there is in a way, because if there wasn’t, the whole story would be contrary to nature and would tumble down like a pack of cards.”
“There’s no dark side, and I won’t have you say there is, Lyddy. Why shouldn’t the Lord hatch a piece of happiness for four humans once in a way, if He’s got a mind to do it?”
“It ain’t the Almighty; it’s my people at Priory Farm. I heard some bitter things there I do assure you.”
“I’ll bet you did,” said Mr. Knox. “I can see ’em at you. And I can also very well guess what they said about me.”
“Especially Mary. I never heard her use such language, and I never saw her so properly awake before. But I was glad after, because when she called you a crafty old limb of the Dowl, that got my fighting spirit up and they heard a home truth or two. I thought they were very different stuff.”
“If you take people as you find ’em, you’ll make friends,” answered Mr. Knox; “but if you take people as you fancy ’em, you will not. No doubt folk are very flattered at first to find our opinion of ’em is as high as their opinion of themselves. But that don’t last. We can’t for long think of any fellow creature as highly as he thinks of himself. The strain’s too great, and so, presently, we come down to the truth about our friend; and he sees we know it and can’t forgive us. So the friendship fades out, because it was built on fancy and not on reality. That’s what happens to most friendships in the long run.”
“I suppose I never got quite a true picture of my brother’s wife,” admitted Lydia.
“You did not. And what’s hurting her so sharp for the minute and making her so beastly rude is—not so much your going, as your knowing the truth about her. But don’t you fret. They’ll cringe presently. I dare say they’ll be at our wedding yet.”
“I wish I could think so,” she answered. “But it ought to come right, for, after all, I’m a mother too, and what choice had I when Ned got me in a corner like that?”
“Not an earthly,” declared Mr. Knox.