University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.
SPINDLEWOOD.

IT seemed a little like old times to Grace, to be once
more going with Rose and John over the pretty
romantic road to Spindlewood.

John did not reflect upon how little she now saw of
him, and how much of a trial the separation was; but
he noticed how bright and almost gay she was, when
they were by themselves once more. He was gay too.
In the congenial atmosphere of sympathy, his confidence
in himself, and his own right in the little controversy
that had occurred, returned. Not that he said a
word of it; he did not do so, and would not have done
so for the world. Grace and Rose were full of anecdotes
of this, that, and the other of their scholars; and
all the particulars of some of their new movements
were discussed. The people had, of their own accord,
raised a subscription for a library, which was to be
presented to John that day, with a request that he
would select the books.

“Gracie, that must be your work,” said John; “you
know I shall have an important case next week.”

“Oh, yes! Rose and I will settle it,” said Grace.
“Rose, we 'll get the catalogues from all the book-stores,
and mark the things.”

“We 'll want books for the children just beginning
to read; and then books for the young men in John's
Bible-class, and all the way between,” said Rose. “It
will be quite a work to select.”

“And then to bargain with the book-stores, and
make the money go `far as possible,'” said Grace.

“And then there 'll be the covering of the books,”
said Rose. “I 'll tell you. I think I 'll manage to
have a lawn tea at our house; and the girls shall all
come early, and get the books covered, — that 'll be
charming.”

“I think Lillie would like that,” put in John.

“I should be so glad!” said Rose. “What a lovely
little thing she is! I hope she 'll like it. I wanted to
get up something pretty for her. I think, at this time
of the year, lawn teas are a little variety.”

“Oh, she 'll like it of course!” said John, with
some sinking of heart about the Sunday-school books.

There were so many pressing to shake hands with
John, and congratulate him, so many histories to tell,
so many cases presented for consultation, that it was
quite late before they got away; and tea had been
waiting for them more than an hour when they
returned.

Lillie looked pensive, and had that indescribable air
of patient martyrdom which some women know how
to make so very effective. Lillie had good general

knowledge of the science of martyrdom, — a little spice
and flavor of it had been gently infused at times into
her demeanor ever since she had been at Springdale.
She could do the uncomplaining sufferer with the happiest
effect. She contrived to insinuate at times how
she didn't complain, — how dull and slow she found
her life, and yet how she endeavored to be cheerful.

“I know,” she said to John when they were by
themselves, “that you and Grace both think I 'm a
horrid creature.”

“Why, no, dearest; indeed we don't.”

“But you do, though; oh, I feel it! The fact is,
John, I haven't a particle of constitution; and, if I
should try to go on as Grace does, it would kill me in a
month. Ma never would let me try to do any thing;
and, if I did, I was sure to break all down under it:
but, if you say so, I 'll try to go into this school.”

“Oh, no, Lillie! I don't want you to go in. I know,
darling, you could not stand any fatigue. I only
wanted you to take an interest, — just to go and see
them for my sake.”

“Well, John, if you must go, and must keep it up, I
must try to go. I 'll go with you next Sunday. It will
make my head ache perhaps; but no matter, if you
wish it. You don't think badly of me, do you?” she
said coaxingly, playing with his whiskers.

“No, darling, not the least.”

“I suppose it would be a great deal better for you if
you had married a strong, energetic woman, like your
sister. I do admire her so; but it discourages me.”

“Darling, I 'd a thousand times rather have you
what you are,” said John; for —

“O John! come, you ought to be sincere.”

“Sincere, Lillie! I am sincere.”

“You really would rather have poor, poor little me
than a woman like Gracie, — a great, strong, energetic
woman?” And Lillie laid her soft cheek down on his
arm in pensive humility.

“Yes, a thousand million times,” said John in his
enthusiasm, catching her in his arms and kissing her.
“I wouldn't for the world have you any thing but the
darling little Lillie you are. I love your faults more
than the virtues of other women. You are a thousand
times better than I am. I am a great, coarse block-head,
compared to you. I hope I didn't hurt your feelings
this noon; you know, Lillie, I 'm hasty, and apt to
be inconsiderate. I don't really know that I ought to
let you go over next Sunday.”

“O John, you are so good! Certainly if you go I
ought to; and I shall try my best.” Then John told
her all about the books and the lawn tea, and Lillie
listened approvingly.

So they had a lawn tea at the Fergusons that week,
where Lillie was the cynosure of all eyes. Mr. Mathews,
the new young clergyman of Springdale, was
there. Mr. Mathews had been credited as one of the
admirers of Rose Ferguson; but on this occasion he

promenaded and talked with Lillie, and Lillie alone,
with an exclusive devotion.

“What a lovely young creature your new sister is!”
he said to Grace. “She seems to have so much religious
sensibility.”

“I say, Lillie,” said John, “Mathews seemed to be
smitten with you. I had a notion of interfering.”

“Did you ever see any thing like it, John? I
couldn't shake the creature off. I was so thankful when
you came up and took me. He 's Rose's admirer, and
he hardly spoke a word to her. I think it 's shameful.”

The next Sunday, Lillie rode over to Spindlewood
with John and Rose and Mr. Mathews.

Never had the picturesque of religion received more
lustre than from her presence. John was delighted to
see how they all gazed at her and wondered. Lillie
looked like a first-rate French picture of the youthful
Madonna, — white, pure, and patient. The day was
hot, and the hall crowded; and John noticed, what he
never did before, the close smell and confined air, and
it made him uneasy. When we are feeling with the
nerves of some one else, we notice every roughness and
inconvenience. John thought he had never seen his
school appear so little to advantage. Yet Lillie was an
image of patient endurance, trying to be pleased; and
John thought her, as she sat and did nothing, more of
a saint than Rose and Grace, who were laboriously
sorting books, and gathering around them large classes
of factory boys, to whom they talked with an exhausting
devotedness.

When all was over, Lillie sat back on the carriage-cushions,
and smelled at her gold vinaigrette.

“You are all worn out, dear,” said John, tenderly.

“It 's no matter,” she said faintly.

“O Lillie darling! does your head ache?”

“A little, — you know it was close in there. I 'm
very sensitive to such things. I don't think they affect
others as they do me,” said Lillie, with the voice of a
dying zephyr.

“Lillie, it is not your duty to go,” said John; “if you
are not made ill by this, I never will take you again;
you are too precious to be risked.”

“How can you say so, John? I 'm a poor little
creature, — no use to anybody.”

Hereupon John told her that her only use in life was
to be lovely and to be loved, — that a thing of beauty
was a joy forever, &c., &c. But Lillie was too much
exhausted, on her return, to appear at the tea-table.
She took to her bed at once with sick headache, to the
poignant remorse of John. “You see how it is, Gracie,”
he said. “Poor dear little thing, she is willing enough,
but there 's nothing of her. We mustn't allow her to
exert herself; her feelings always carry her away.”

The next Sunday, John sat at home with Lillie, who
found herself too unwell to go to church, and was in
a state of such low spirits as to require constant soothing
to keep her quiet.

“It is fortunate that I have you and Rose to trust
the school with,” said John; “you see, it 's my first duty
to take care of Lillie.”