FullReads

“I began to feel uncomfortable. Fatima was crouched down near Lucy, listening to the history of a piece of lace. I waited some little time to catch her eye, and then beckoned her to me.

“‘We haven’t read,’ I whispered.

“‘Dare you go?’ asked Fatima.

“‘We ought,’ I said.

“It required more daring than may appear. To such little people as ourselves it was rather an undertaking to cross the big drawing-room, stealing together over the soft carpet; to attack the large, smooth handle, open the heavy door, and leave the room in the face of the company. We did it, however, our confusion being much increased by the Irish gentleman, who jumped up to open the door for us. We were utterly unable to thank him, and, stumbling over each other in the passage, flew up to our own room like caged birds set free.

“Fatima drew out the pillows from the bed, and made herself easy on the floor. I found the book, and climbed into the window-seat. The sun was setting, the light would not last much longer; yet I turned over the pages slowly, to find the place, which was in the second part, thinking of the conversation downstairs. Fatima heaved a deep sigh among her cushions, and said: ‘I wish we were rich.’

“‘I wish we were at home,’ I answered.

“‘When one’s at home,’ Fatima continued, in doleful tones, ‘one doesn’t feel it, because one sees nobody; but when one goes among other people, it is wretched not to have plenty of money and things. And it’s no good saying it isn’t,’ she added, hurriedly, as if to close the subject.

“‘It’s getting dark,’ I said.

“‘I beg your pardon: go on,’ sighed Fatima.

“I lifted up my voice, and read till I could see no longer. It was about the Valley of Humiliation through which Mr. Greatheart led Christiana and her children. The ‘green valley, beautified with lilies,’ in whose meadows the air was pleasant; where ‘a man shall be free from the noise and from the hurryings of this life;’ and where ‘in former times men have met with angels.’

“The last streaks of crimson were fading in the sky when I read the concluding lines of the shepherd-boy’s song–

‘Fulness to such a burden is,
That go on pilgrimage,
Here little, and hereafter bliss,
Is best from age to age.’

“‘Here little, and hereafter bliss!’

“It is not always easy to realize what one believes. One needs sometimes to get away from the world around, ‘from the noise and from the hurryings of this life,’ and to hear, read, see, or do something to remind one that there is a standard which is not of drawing-rooms; that petty troubles are the pilgrimage of the soul; that great and happy lives have been lived here by those who have had but little; and that satisfying bliss is not here, but hereafter.

“We went downstairs slowly, hand in hand.

“‘I wonder what mother is doing?’ said Fatima.

* * * * *

“The next day Miss Lucy very good-naturedly helped us to move our belongings into the smaller room we were now to occupy. It was in another part of the house, and we rather enjoyed the running to and fro, especially as Miss Lucy was gracious and communicative in the extreme.

“‘This is the oldest part of the house,’ she said, as we sat on the bed resting from our labours, for the day was sultry; ‘and it breaks off here in an odd way. There are no rooms beyond this. There were some that matched the other side of the house, but they were pulled down.’

“‘Why?’ we asked.

“‘Well, there’s a story about it, in the family,’ said Miss Lucy, mysteriously. ‘But it’s a ghost story. I’ll tell you, if you like. But some people are afraid of ghost stories. I’m not; but if you are, I won’t tell it.’