“How pretty your fancy-work is,” she remarked, politely deprecatory. She told Miss Penny afterwards that she wondered the stuff weren’t all eyelet-holes, for Mrs. Lorraine’s eyes, black as they were, reminded her of burning coals. And she declared that hereafter she would believe in the tamarisk or basilisk or whatever the bird was whose gaze turned one to stone.
“It could hardly be called fancy-work,” Mrs. Lorraine rejoined, and her voice was the more cutting in that it was naturally good and had the modulations of one who has lived among educated people in society. “I make my living and that of my daughter—or try to—doing this work.”
Anna felt she should have run from this house also had not the daughter appeared at this moment with a tray containing a cup of tea and a plate of biscuit. She took it gratefully and in her nervousness scalded her throat so that tears came to her eyes. It would have been easy to burst into tears, and the girl resolutely studied the pattern of the napkin. So doing, she noticed that it was of the finest damask she had ever seen but was apparently old for it was darned and patched. Somehow, she had never heard of patching napkins. But she felt Mrs. Lorraine’s piercing eyes upon her and transferred her attention to the silver spoon which was also old, very thin and exceedingly fine.
“They were my grandmother’s, and I kept the dozen. They were too thin and worn to be worth anything,” Mrs. Lorraine declared in the manner of challenge. And Anna felt that she could endure no longer. Gulping down the tea, she rose to her feet.
“I must be going,” she said and turning to the daughter thanked her for the refreshment.
“I feel so much better,” she said. “I——”
Pausing, she gazed wistfully at the girl who seemed sweeter and gentler in contrast with her mother’s haughtiness, and to whom Anna’s heart went out warmly. It seemed as if she couldn’t leave her without pledge of another meeting. But when she asked if she might call for her on the morrow to go to church, Mrs. Lorraine said that she and her daughter did not go out.
“Just the same, I am sure there were tears in that sweet girl’s eyes,” Anna told Miss Penny that evening. “She is all ready to be friendly, but what can she do with that terrible old woman. And yet—I’m sorry for her, too, poor thing!”
“I suppose she doesn’t like to appear out after being so rich, though they must have some of their fine clothes left,” returned Miss Penny. “But it may be their carriage, you know, though for that matter I don’t know why even people with a coachman and footmen should care to drive to church when it’s only across the way—that is, it’s cross-wise from the parsonage and there’s only one house between the parsonage and the lane, and Reuben’s father didn’t have to start until the last minute, though he was always there, of course, to begin to play before the opening of service. And there’s no barn for the carriage and where would they put the coachman?”
“They could make a nice little coop for him by putting hinges on the floor of the pipe organ platform and making a lid of it,” remarked Anna lightly. She had decided on the way home that she would not mention her visit to the parsonage to anyone. She would fulfill her promise, clean the little marble lamb and then forget all about it and about Mrs. Langley and go back to thinking of Mr. Langley as if he were a bachelor. She would make no further ill-advised efforts to bring back his youthfulness; she would be thankful if she hadn’t added ten years to his age. If he didn’t appear to-morrow in the pulpit with snow-white hair she would thank her lucky stars and never meddle with his affairs again.