"'Made it like then?'" Gwen was not sure she followed this.
"Yes—like then, when the mill was, and our father. Only before I married and went away he made us go with him, always. He was very strict. It was after that I would persuade Phoebe to leave me behind when she went on Sunday. It was when she was married to Uncle Nicholas who was drowned. We always called him Uncle Nicholas, because of my little Ruth."
Gwen thought a moment whether anything would be gained by clearing up this confusion. Old Maisie's belief in "Uncle Nicholas's" death by drowning, fifty years ago, clung to her mind, as a portion of a chaotic past no visible surrounding challenged. It was quite negligible—that was Gwen's decision. She held her tongue.
But nothing of the Chaos was negligible. Every memory was entangled with another. A sort of affright seemed to seize upon old Maisie, making her hand tighten suddenly on Gwen's arm. "Oh, how was that—how was that?" she cried. "They were together—all together!"
"It was only what the letter said," answered Gwen. "It was all a made-up story. Uncle Nicholas was not drowned, any more than your sister, or your child."
"Oh dear!" Old Maisie's hand went to her forehead, as though it stunned her to think.
"They will tell you when he died, soon, when you have got more settled. I don't know."
"He must be dead, because Phoebe is a widow."
"She is the widow of the husband she married after his death. That is why her name is Marrable, not ... Cropworthy—was it?"
"Not Cropworthy—Cropredy. Such a funny name we thought it.... But then—Phoebe must think...."