Lilac locked her hands tightly together and made no answer. She would not say anything about Agnetta, who had meant kindly in what she had done.
“I know,” continued her mother, “without you sayin’ a word. It was one of them Greenways. But I did think as how you’d enough sense and sperrit of yer own to stand out agin’ their foolishness—let alone anything else. It’s plain to me now that you don’t care for yer mother or what she says. You’ll fly right in her face to please any of them at Orchards Farm.”
Still Lilac did not speak, and her silence made Mrs White more and more angry.
“An’ what do you think you’ve got by it?” she continued scornfully. “Do those silly things think it makes ’em look like ladies to cut their hair so and dress themselves up fine? Then you can tell ’em this from me: Vulgar they are, and vulgar they’ll be all their lives long, and nothing they can do to their outsides will change ’em. But they might a left you alone, Lilac, for you’re but a child; only I did think as you’d a had more sense.”
Lilac was crying now. This scolding on the top of much excitement and disappointment was more than she could bear, but still she felt she must defend the Greenways from blame.
“It was my fault,” she sobbed. “I thought as how it would look nicer.”
“The many and many times,” pursued Mrs White, drying her hands vigorously on a rough towel, “as I’ve tried to make you understand what’s respectable and right and fitting! And it’s all been no good. Well, I’ve done. Go to your Greenways and let them teach you, and much profit may you get. I’ve done with you—you don’t look like my child no longer.”
She turned her back and began to bustle about with the linen, not looking towards Lilac again. In reality her eyes were full of tears and she would have given worlds to cry heartily with the child, for to use those hard words to her was like bruising her own flesh. But she was too mortified and angry to show it, and Lilac, after casting some wistful glances at the active figure, turned and went slowly out of the room with drooping head.
Pulling her bonnet forward so that her forehead and the dreadful fringe were quite hidden, she wandered down the hill, hardly knowing or caring where she went. All the world was against her. No one would ever look pleasantly at her again, if even her mother frowned and turned away. One by one she recalled what they had all said. First, Peter: “I liked it best as it wur afore.” Then the artist—he had been quite angry. “You stupid little girl,” he had said, “you’ve made yourself quite commonplace. You’re no use whatever. Run away.” And now Mother—that was worst of all: “You don’t look like my child.” Lilac’s tears fell fast when she remembered that. How very hard they all were upon her! She strayed listlessly onwards, and presently came to a sudden standstill, for she found that she was getting near the bottom of the hill, where the artist was no doubt still sitting. That would never do. At her right hand there branched off a wide grass-grown lane, one of the ancient roads of the Romans which could still be traced along the valley. It was seldom used now, for it led nowhere in particular; but here and there at long distances there were some small cottages in it, and in one of these lived the cobbler, Joshua Snell.
Now, Uncle Joshua, as she called him, though he was no relation to her, was a great friend of Lilac’s, and the thought of him darted into her forlorn little mind like a ray of comfort. He would perhaps look kindly at her in spite of her fringe. There was no one else to do it except Agnetta, and to reach her the artist must be passed, which was impossible. Lilac could not remember that Joshua had ever been cross to her, even in the days when she had played with his bits of leather and mislaid his tools—those old days when she was a tiny child, and Mother had left her with him “to mind” when she went out to work. And besides being kind he was wise, and would surely find some way to help her in her present distress. Perhaps even he would speak to Mother, who thought a deal of what he said, and that would make her less angry. A little cheered by these reflections Lilac turned down the lane, quickened her pace, and made straight for the cobbler’s cottage.