What Happened in the Primrose Lane.
“Wee mortal wights whose lives and fortunes bee
To common accidents still open layd,
Are bownd with commun bond of frailtee
To succour wretched wights...”
Faery Queen.
It was within a few days of Lilian’s going. The bustle of preparation—of “doing up” the two white muslin evening dresses, the joint property of herself and Mary, but which Mary insisted on resigning to her sister; of “turning” the black silk skirt which had already done good service; and—most important of all—the cutting out and making the one new dress which the family finances had been able to afford—all was over. Everything was ready, and only not packed because it was a pity to crush the garments prematurely. Lilias’s temporary excitement, now that there was nothing more to do, was already on the wane. She was gentleness and sweetness itself, but with a look in her eyes that Mary did not like to see, and a clingingness in her manner which made both mother and sister wish that the day for her going were actually come and the parting, such as it was, fairly over.
It was a lovely afternoon—spring was really coming, or thinking of it anyway.
“The birds are talking about their new houses, aren’t they, Mary?” said little Francie, as she trotted along beside her sister. They had walked part of the way to Withenden with Lilias and Josey, who were bent on an expedition to the one village shop in quest of some wool for their father’s next winter socks, the knitting of which was to be Lilias’s “fancy work” while away from home. Mary had been glad when the idea struck Lilias, as her practical belief in the efficacy of a good long walk for low spirits of every kind was great.
“I wish I could go with you,” she had said to Lily, “but some one must take Francie out, and Alexa and Josey always get into scrapes unless one of us is with them. You had better take Josey, she is always ready for a long walk, and Alexa may potter about the garden with mother, just what she likes.”
“Very well,” said Lilias, “but you and Francie might come part of the way with us. Josey is considerably more agreeable out of doors than in the house, but two hours and a half of her, unalloyed, is about as much as I can stand. I am tired, Mary, horribly tired—‘not in my feet,’ as Francie says, but in my own self; and oh, I’m so sorry to have been such a plague to you all this time—it makes me feel as if I couldn’t go away.”
Her voice was dangerously tremulous, and of all things Mary dreaded a break-down, now at the last.
“Now, Lilias,” she said, in what Lilias sometimes called her “make-up-your-mind-to-it” tone, “you are not to begin talking rubbish. Do you hear, child? If you want to please me, there’s just one thing to do—go away with Mrs Greville and try to enjoy yourself. This will be the most unselfish thing you can do; and even if you feel at first as if you couldn’t enjoy yourself, it will come—you’ll see if it doesn’t. Now let us set off at once, or you and Josey will not be back by tea-time.”
They skirted the Balner woods in going, but coming home, Mary, not being pressed for time, yielded to Francie’s entreaty that they might choose the primrose lane, thereby saving herself a good deal of future discussion, as nothing but “ocular demonstration” would convince the child that there might not be a few primroses out, “just two or three, perhaps, as it was such a werry fine day.”