Chapter Three.
“Uncle Joshua.”
“Let each be what he is, so will he be good enough for man himself, and God.”—Lavater.
Whilst all this was going on at the farm, Mrs White had been busy as usual in the cottage on the hill—her mind full of Lilac, and her hands full of the Rectory washing. It was an important business, for it was all she and her child had to depend on beside a small pension allowed her by Jem’s late employers; but quite apart from this she took a pride in her work for its own sake. She felt responsible not only for the unyielding stiffness of the Rector’s round collars, but also for the appearance of the choristers’ surplices; and any failure in colour or approach to limpness was a real pain to her, and made it difficult to fix her attention on the service. This happened very seldom, however; and when it did, was owing to an unfortunate drying day or other accident, and never to want of exertion on her own part.
There was nothing to complain of in the weather this morning—a bright sun and a nice bit of wind, and not too much of it. Mrs White wrung out the surplices in a very cheerful spirit, and her grave face had a smile on it now and then, for she was thinking of Lilac. Lilac sweetened all her life now, much in the same way that the bunch of flowers from which she took her name had sweetened the small room with its fragrance twelve years ago. As she grew up her mother’s love grew too, stronger year by year; for when she looked at her she remembered all the happiness that her life had known—when she spoke her name, it brought back a thousand pleasant memories and kept them fresh in her mind. And she looked forward too, for Lilac’s sake, and saw in years to come her proudest hope fulfilled—her child grown to be a self-respecting useful woman, who could work for herself and need be beholden to no one. She had no higher ambition for her; but this she had set her heart on, she should not become lazy, vain, helpless, like her cousins the Greenways. That was the pitfall from which she would strain every muscle to hold Lilac back. There were moments when she trembled for the bad influence of example at Orchards Farm. She knew Lilac’s yielding affectionate nature and her great admiration for her cousins, and kept a watchful eye for the first unsatisfactory signs. But there were none. No one could accuse Lilac of untidy ways, or want of thoroughness in dusting, sweeping, and all branches of household work, and even Mrs White could find no fault. “After all,” she said to herself, “it’s natural in young things to like to be together, and there’s nothing worse nor foolishness in Agnetta and Bella.” So she allowed the visits to go on, and contented herself by many a word in season and many a pointed practical lesson. The Greenways were seldom mentioned, but they were, nevertheless, very often in the minds of both mother and daughter.
This morning she was thinking of a much more pleasant subject. “How was the artist gentleman getting along with Lilac’s picture? He must be well at it now,” she thought, looking up at the loud-voiced American clock, “an’ her looking as peart and pretty as a daisy. White-faced indeed! I’d rather she were white-faced than have great red cheeks like a peony bloom. What will he do with the picture afterwards?” Joshua Snell, through reading the papers so much, knew most things, and he had said that it would p’r’aps be hung up with a lot of others in a place in London called an exhibition, where you could pay money and go to see ’em. “If he’s right,” concluded Mrs White, wringing out the last surplice, “I do really think as how I must give Lilac a jaunt up to London, an’ we’ll go and see it. The last holiday as ever I had was fifteen years back, an’ that was when Jem and me, we went—Why, I do believe,” she said aloud, “here she is back a’ready!”
There was a sound of running feet, which she had heard too often to mistake, then the click of the latch, and then Lilac herself rushed through the front room.
“Mother, Mother,” she cried, “he won’t paint me!”
Mrs White turned sharply round. Lilac was standing just inside the entrance to the back kitchen, with her bonnet on, and her hands clasped over her face. To keep her bonnet on a moment after she was in the house struck her mother at once as something strange and unusual, and she stared at her for an instant in silence, with her bands held up dripping and pink from the water.