THE COUSINS

“For the apparel oft proclaims the man.” Shakespeare.

But Mrs Greenways was wrong. Twelve more springs came and went, cold winds blew round the cottage on the hill, winter snow covered it, summer sun blazed down on its unsheltered roof, but the small blossom within grew and flourished. A weak tender-looking little plant at first, but gathering strength with the years until it became hardy and bold, fit to face rough weather as well as to smile in the sunshine.

It was twelve years since James White’s death, twelve years since he had brought the bunch of lilac from Cuddingham which had given his little daughter her name that name which had once sounded so strangely in Mrs White’s ears. It had come to mean so much to her now, so many memories of the past, so much sweetness in the present, that she would not have changed it for the world, and indeed no one questioned its fitness, for as time went on it seemed to belong naturally to the child; it was even made more expressive by putting the surname first, so that she was often called “White Lilac.”

For the distinguishing character of her face was its whiteness “A wonderful white skin”, as her mother had said, which did not tan, or freckle, or flush with heat, and which shone out in startling contrast amongst the red and brown cheeks of her school companions. This small white face was set upon a slender neck, and a delicately-formed but upright little figure, which looked all the straighter and more like the stalk of a flower, because it was never adorned with any flounces or furbelows. Lilac was considered in the village to be very old-fashioned in her dress; she wore cotton frocks, plain in the skirt with gathers all round the waist, long pinafores or aprons, and sunbonnets. This attire was always spotless and freshly clean, but garments of such a shape and cut were lamentably wanting in fashion to the general eye, and were the subject of constant ridicule. Not in the hearing of the widow, for most people were a good deal in awe of her, but Lilac herself heard quite enough about her clothes to be conscious of them and to feel ashamed of looking “different.” And this was specially the case at school, for there she met Agnetta Greenways every day, and Agnetta was the object of her highest admiration; to be like her in some way was the deep and secret longing in her mind. It was, she knew well, a useless ambition, but she could not help desiring it, Agnetta was such a beautiful object to look upon, with her red cheeks and the heavy fringe of black hair which rested in a lump on her forehead. On Sundays, when she wore her blue dress richly trimmed with plush, a long feather in her hat, and a silver bangle on her arm, Lilac could hardly keep her intense admiration silent; it was a pain not to speak of it, and yet she knew that nothing would have displeased her mother so much, who was never willing to hear the Greenways praised. So she only gazed wistfully at her cousin’s square gaily-dressed figure, and felt herself a poor washed-out insignificant child in comparison.

This was very much Agnetta’s own view of the case; but nevertheless there were occasions when she was glad of this insignificant creature’s assistance, for she was slow and stupid at her lessons, books were grief and pain to her, and Lilac, who was intelligent and fond of learning, was always ready to help and explain. This service, given most willingly, was received by Agnetta as one to whom it was due, and indeed the position she held among her schoolfellows made most of them eager to call her friend. She lived at Orchards Farm, which was the biggest in the parish; her two elder sisters had been to a finishing school, and one of them was now in a millinery establishment in London, where she wore a silk dress every day. This was sufficient to excuse airs of superiority in anyone. It was natural, therefore, to repay Lilac’s devotion by condescending patronage, and to look down on her from a great height; nevertheless it was extremely agreeable to Agnetta to be worshipped, and this made her seek her cousin’s companionship, and invite her often to Orchards Farm. There she could display her smart frocks, dwell on the extent of her father’s possessions, on her sister Bella’s stylishness, on the last fashion Gusta had sent from London, while Lilac, meek and admiring, stood by with wonder in her eyes. Orchards Farm was the most beautiful place her imagination could picture, and to live there must be, she thought, perfect happiness. There was a largeness about it, with its blossoming fruit trees, its broad green meadows, its barns and stacks, its flocks of sheep and herds of cattle; even the shiny-leaved magnolia which covered part of the house seemed to Lilac to speak of peace and plenty. It was all so different from her home; the bare white cottage on the hillside where no trees grew, where all was so narrow and cold, and where life seemed to be made up of scrubbing, sweeping, and washing. She looked longingly down from this sometimes to the valley where the farm stood.

But other eyes, and Mrs White’s in particular, saw a very different state of things when they looked at Orchards Farm. She knew that under this smiling outside face lay hidden care and anxiety; for her brother, Farmer Greenways, was in debt and short of money. Folks shook their heads when it was mentioned, and said: “What could you expect?” The old people remembered the prosperous days at the farm, when the dairy had been properly worked, and the butter was the best you could get anywhere round. There was the pasture land still, and a good lot of cows, but since the Greenways had come there the supply of butter was poor, and sometimes the whole quantity sent to market was so carelessly made that it was sour. Whose fault was it? Mrs Greenways would have said that Molly, the one overworked maid servant, was to blame; but other people thought differently, and Mrs White was as usual outspoken in her opinions to her sister-in-law: “It ’ull never be any different as long as you don’t look after the dairy yourself, or teach Bella to do it. What does Molly care how the butter turns out?”

But Bella tossed her head at the idea of working, as she expressed it, “like a common servant”, or indeed at working at all. She considered that her business in life was to be genteel, and to be properly genteel was to do nothing useful. So she studied the fashion books which Gusta sent from London, made up wonderful costumes for herself, curled her hair in the last style, and read the stories about dukes and earls and countesses which came out in the Family Herald.

The smart bonnets and dresses which Mrs Greenways and her daughters wore on Sundays in spite of hard times and poor crops and debt were the wonder of the whole congregation, and in Mrs White’s case the wonder was mixed with scorn. “Peter’s the only one among ’em as is good for anything,” she sometimes said, “an’ he’s naught but a puzzle-headed sort of a chap.” Peter was the farmer’s only son, a loutish youth of fifteen, steady and plodding as his plough horses and almost as silent.

It was April again, bright and breezy, and all the cherry trees at the farm were so white with bloom that standing under them you could scarcely see the sky. The grass in the orchard was freshly green and sprinkled with daisies, amongst which families of fluffy yellow ducklings trod awkwardly about on their little splay feet, while the careful mother hens picked out the best morsels of food for them. This food was flung out of a basin by Agnetta Greenways, who stood there squarely erect uttering a monotonous “Chuck, chuck, chuck,” at intervals. Agnetta did not care for the poultry, or indeed for any of the creatures on the farm; they were to her only troublesome things that wanted looking after, and she would have liked not to have had anything to do with them. Just now, however, there was a week’s holiday at the school, and she was obliged to use her leisure in helping her mother, much against her will. Agnetta had a stolid face with a great deal of colour in her cheeks; her hair was black, but at this hour it was so tightly done up in curl papers that the colour could hardly be seen. She wore an old red merino dress which had once been a smart one, but was now degraded to what she called “dirty work”, and was covered with patches and stains. Her hands and wrists were very large, and looked capable of hard work, as indeed did the whole person of Agnetta from top to toe.

“Chuck, chuck, chuck,” she repeated as she threw out the last spoonful; then, raising her eyes, she became aware of a little figure in the distance, running towards her across the field at the bottom of the orchard.

“Lor’!” she exclaimed aloud, “if here isn’t Lilac White!”

It was a slight little figure clothed in a cotton frock which had once been blue in colour, but had been washed so very often that it now approached a shade of green; over it was a long straight pinafore gathered round the neck with a string, and below it appeared blue worsted stockings, and thick, laced boots. Her black hair was brushed back and plaited in one long tail tied at the end with black ribbon, and in her hand she carried a big sunbonnet, swinging it round and round in the air as she ran. As she came nearer the orchard gate, it was easy to see that she had some news to tell, for her small features worked with excitement, and her grey eyes were bright with eagerness.

Agnetta advanced slowly to meet her with the empty basin in her hand, and unlatched the gate.

“Whatever’s the matter?” she asked.

Lilac could not answer just at first, for she had been running a long way, and her breath came in short gasps. She came to a standstill under the trees, and Agnetta stared gravely at her with her mouth wide open. The two girls formed a strong contrast to each other. Lilac’s white face and the faded colour of her dress matched the blossoms and leaves of the cherry trees in their delicacy, while about the red-cheeked Agnetta there was something firm and positive, which suggested the fruit which would come later.

“I came ” gasped Lilac at last, “I ran I thought I must tell you

“Well,” said Agnetta, still staring at her in an unmoved manner, “you’d better fetch your breath, and then you’ll be able to tell me. Come and sit down.”

There was a bench under one of the trees near where she had been feeding the ducks. The two girls sat down, and presently Lilac was able to say: “Oh, Agnetta, the artist gentleman wants to put me in a picture!”

“Whatever do you mean, Lilac White?” was Agnetta’s only reply. Her slightly disapproving voice calmed Lilac’s excitement a little.

“This is how it was,” she continued more quietly. “You know he’s lodging at the `Three Bells?’ and he comes an’ sits at the bottom of our hill an’ paints all day.”

“Of course I know,” said Agnetta. “It’s a poor sort of an object he’s copyin’, too Old Joe’s tumble-down cottage. I peeped over his shoulder t’other day ’taint much like.”

“Well, I pass him every day comin’ from school, and he always looks up at me eager without sayin’ nothing. But this morning he says, `Little gal,’ says he, `I want to put you into my picture.’”

“Lor’!” put in Agnetta, “whatever can he want to paint you for?”

“So I didn’t say nothing,” continued Lilac, “because he looked so hard at me that I was skeert-like. So then he says very impatient, `Don’t you understand? I want you to come here in that frock and that bonnet in your hand, and let me paint you, copy you, take your portrait. You run and ask Mother.’”

“I never did!” exclaimed Agnetta, moved at last. “Whatever can he want to do it for? An’ that frock, an’ that silly bonnet an’ all! He must be a crazy gentleman, I should say.” She gave a short laugh, partly of vexation.

“But that ain’t all,” continued Lilac; “just as I was turning to go he calls after me, `What’s yer name?’ And when I told him he shouts out, `_What_!’ with his eyes hanging out ever so far.”

“Well, I dare say he thought it was a silly-sounding sort of a name,” observed Agnetta.

“He said it over and over to hisself, and laughed right out `Lilac White! White Lilac!’ says he. `What a subjeck! What a name! Splendid!’ An’ then he says to me quieter, `You’re a very nice little girl indeed, and if Mother will let you come I’ll give you sixpence for every hour you stand.’ So then I went an’ asked Mother, and she said yes, an’ then I ran all the way here to tell you.”

Lilac looked round as she finished her wonderful story. Agnetta’s eyes were travelling slowly over her cousin’s whole person, from her face down to the thick, laced boots on her feet, and back again. “I can’t mek out,” she said at length, “whatever it is that he wants to paint you for, and dressed like that! Why, there ain’t a mossel of colour about you! Now, if you had my Sunday blue!”

“Oh, Agnetta!” exclaimed Lilac at the mention of such impossible elegance.

“And,” pursued Agnetta, “a few artificials in yer hair, like the ladies in our Book of Beauty, that ’ud brighten you up a bit. Bella’s got some red roses with dewdrops on ’em, an’ a caterpillar just like life. She’d lend you ’em p’r’aps, an’ I don’t know but what I’d let you have my silver locket just for once.”

“I’m afraid he wouldn’t like that,” said Lilac dejectedly, “because he said quite earnest, `_Mind_ you bring the bonnet’.”

She saw herself for a moment in the splendid attire Agnetta had described, and gave a little sigh of longing.

“I must go back,” she said, getting up suddenly, “Mother’ll want me. There’s lots to do at home.”

“I’ll go with you a piece,” said Agnetta; “we’ll go through the farmyard way so as I can leave the basin.”

This was a longer way home for Lilac than across the fields, but she never thought of disputing Agnetta’s decision, and the cousins left the orchard by another gate which led into the garden. It was not a very tidy garden, and although some care had been bestowed on the vegetables, the flowers were left to come up where they liked and how they liked, and the grass plot near the house was rank and weedy. Nevertheless it presented a gay and flourishing appearance with its masses of polyanthus in full bloom, its tulips, and Turk’s head lilies, and lilac bushes. There was one particular bed close to the gate which had a neater appearance than the rest, and where the flowers grew in a well-ordered manner as though accustomed to personal attention. The edges of the turf were trimly clipped, and there was not a weed to be seen. It had a mixed border of forget-me-not and London pride.

“How pretty your flowers grow!” said Lilac, stopping to look at it with admiration.

“Oh, that’s Peter’s bed,” said Agnetta carelessly, snapping off some blossoms. “He’s allays mucking at it in his spare time not that he’s got much, there’s so much to do on the farm.”

The house was now in front of them, and a little to the left the various, coloured roofs of the farm buildings, some tiled with weather-beaten bricks, some thatched, some tarred, and the bright yellow straw ricks standing here and there. Between these buildings and the house was a narrow lane, generally ankle-deep in mud, which led into the highroad.

Lilac was very fond of the farmyard and all the creatures in it. She stopped at the gate and looked over at a company of small black pigs routing about in the straw.

“Oh, Agnetta!” she exclaimed, “you’ve got some toiny pigs; what peart little uns they are!”

“I can’t abide pigs,” said Agnetta with a toss of her curl-papered head; “no more can’t Bella, we neither of us can’t. Nasty, vulgar, low-smelling things.”

Lilac felt that hers must be a vulgar taste as Agnetta said so, but still she did like the little pigs, and would have been glad to linger near them. It was often puzzling to her that Agnetta called so many things common and vulgar, but she always ended by thinking that it was because she was so superior.

“Here, Peter!” exclaimed Agnetta suddenly. A boy in leather leggings and a smock appeared at the entrance of the barn, and came tramping across the straw towards them at her call. “Just take this into the kitchen,” said his sister in commanding tones. “Now,” turning to Lilac, “we can go t’other way across the fields. The lane’s all in a muck.”

Peter slouched away with the basin in his hand. He was a heavy-looking youth, and so shy that he seldom raised his eyes from the ground.

“No one ’ud think,” said Agnetta as the girls entered the meadow again, “as Peter was Bella’s and Gusta’s and my brother. He’s so dreadful vulgar-lookin’ dressed like that. He might be a common ploughboy, and his manners is awful.”

“Are they?” said Lilac.

“Pa won’t hear a word against him,” continued Agnetta, “cause he’s so useful with the farm work. He says he’d rather see Peter drive a straight furrow than dress himself smart. But Bella and me we’re ashamed to be seen with him, we can’t neither of us abide commoners.”

Common! there was the word again which seemed to mean so many things and yet was so difficult to understand. Common things were evidently vulgar. The pigs were common, Peter was common, perhaps Lilac herself was common in Agnetta’s eyes. “And yet,” she reflected, lifting her gaze from the yellow carpet at her feet to the flowering orchards, “the cherry blossoms and the buttercups are common too; would Agnetta call them vulgar?”

She had not long to think about this, for her cousin soon introduced another and a very interesting subject.

“Who’s goin’ to be Queen this year, I wonder?” she said; “there’ll be a sight of flowers if the weather keeps all on so fine.”

“It’ll be you, Agnetta, for sure,” answered Lilac; “I know lots who mean to choose you this time.”

“I dessay,” said Agnetta with an air of lofty indifference.

“Don’t you want to be?” asked Lilac.

The careless tone surprised her, for to be chosen Queen of the May was not only an honour, but a position of importance and splendour. It meant to march at the head of a long procession of children, in a white dress, to be crowned with flowers in the midst of gaiety and rejoicing, to lead the dance round the maypole, and to be first throughout a day of revelry and feasting. To Lilac it was the most beautiful of ceremonies to see the Queen crowned; to join in it was a delight, but to be chosen Queen herself would be a height of bliss she could hardly imagine. It was impossible therefore, to think her cousin really indifferent, and indeed this was very far from the case, for Agnetta had set her heart on being Queen, and felt tolerably sure that she should get the greatest number of votes this year.

“I don’t know as I care much,” she answered; “let’s sit down here a bit.”

They sat down one each side of a stile, with their faces turned towards each other, and Agnetta again fixed her direct gaze critically on her cousin’s figure. Lilac twirled her sunbonnet round somewhat confusedly under these searching glances.

“It’s a pity you wear your hair scrattled right off your face like that,” said Agnetta at last; “it makes you look for all the world like Daisy’s white calf.”

“Does it?” said Lilac meekly; “Mother likes it done so.”

“I know something as would improve you wonderful, and give you a bit of style something as would make the picture look a deal better.”

“Oh, what, Agnetta?”

“Well, it’s just as simple as can be. It’s only to take a pair of scissors and cut yer hair like mine in front so as it comes down over yer face a bit. It ’ud alter you ever so. You’d be surprised.”

Lilac started to her feet, struck with the immensity of the idea. A fringe! It was a form of elegance not unknown amongst the school-children, but one which she had never thought of as possible for herself.

There was Agnetta’s stolid rosy face close to her, as unmoved and unexcited as if she had said nothing unusual.

“Oh, Agnetta, could I?” gasped Lilac.

“Whyever not?” said her cousin calmly.

Lilac sat down again. “I dursn’t,” she said. “I couldn’t ever bear to look Mother in the face.”

“Has she ever told you not?”

“N-no,” answered Lilac hesitatingly; “leastways she only said once that the girls made frights of themselves with their fringes.”

“Frights indeed!” said Agnetta scornfully; “anyhow,” she added, “it ’ull grow again if she don’t like it.” So it would. That reflection made the deed seem a less daring one, and Lilac’s face at once showed signs of yielding, which Agnetta was not slow to observe. Warming with her subject, she proceeded to paint the improvement which would follow in glowing colours, and in this she was urged by two motives one, an honest desire to smarten Lilac up a little, and the other, to vex and thwart her aunt, Mrs White; to pay her out, as she expressed it, for sundry uncomplimentary remarks on herself and Bella.

“And supposing,” was Lilac’s next remark, “as how I was to make up my mind, I couldn’t never do it for myself. I should be scared.”

This difficulty the energetic Agnetta was quite ready to meet. She would do it. Lilac had only to run down to the farm early next morning, and, after she was made fashionable, she could go straight on to the artist. “And won’t he just be surprised!” she added with a chuckle. “I don’t expect he’ll hardly know you.”

“You’re quite sure it’ll make me look better?” said Lilac wistfully. She had the utmost faith in her cousin, but the step seemed to her such a terribly large one.

“Ain’t I?” was Agnetta’s scornful reply. “Why, Gusta says all the ladies in London wears their hair like that now.”

After this last convincing proof, for Gusta’s was a name of great authority, Lilac resisted no longer, and soon discovered, by the striking of the church clock, that it was getting very late. She said good-bye to Agnetta, therefore, and, leaving her to make her way back at her leisure, ran quickly on through the meadows all streaked and sprinkled with the spring flowers. After these came the dusty high-road for a little while, and then she reached the foot of the steep hill which led up to her home. The artist gentleman was there as usual, a pipe in his mouth, and a palette on his thumb, painting busily: as she hurriedly dropped a curtsy in passing, Lilac’s heart beat quite fast.

“Me in a picture with a fringe!” she said to herself; “how I do hope as Mother won’t mind!”

That afternoon, when she sat quietly down to her sewing, this great idea weighed heavily upon her. It would be the very first step she had ever taken without her mother’s approval, and away from the influence of Agnetta’s decided opinion it seemed doubly alarming a desperate and yet an attractive deed.

Now and then for a moment she thought it would be better to tell her mother, but when she looked up at the grave, rather sad face, bent closely over some needlework, she lacked courage to begin. It seemed far removed from such trifles as fringes and fashions; and though, as Lilac knew well, it could have at times a smile full of love upon it, just now its expression was thoughtful, and even stern.

She kept silence, therefore, and stitched away with a mind as busy as her fingers, until it was time to boil the kettle and get the tea ready. This was just done when Mrs Wishing, who lived still farther up the hill, dropped in on her way home from the village.

She was an uncertain, wavering little woman, with no will of her own, and a heavy burden in the shape of a husband, who, during the last few years, had taken to fits of drinking. The widow White acknowledged that she had a good deal to bear from Dan’l, and when times were very bad, often supplied her with food and firing from her own small store. But she did not do so without protest, for in her opinion the fault was not entirely on Dan’l’s side. “Maybe,” she said, “if he found a clean hearth and a tidy bit o’ supper waitin’ at home, he’d stay there oftener. An’ if he worked reg’lar, and didn’t drink his wages, you’d want for nothin’, and be able to put by with only just the two of you to keep. But I can’t see you starve.”

Mrs Wishing fluttered in at the door, and, as she thought probable, was asked to have a dish of tea. Lilac bustled round the kitchen and set everything neatly on the table, while her mother, glancing at her now and then, stood at the window sewing with active fingers.

“Well, you’re always busy, Mrs White,” said the guest plaintively as she untied her bonnet strings. “I will say as you’re a hard worker yourself, whatever you say about other folks.”

“An’ I hope as when the time comes as I can’t work that the Lord ’ull see fit to take me,” said Mrs White shortly.

“Dear, dear, you’ve got no call to say that,” said Mrs Wishing, “you as have got Lilac to look to in your old age. Now, if it was me and Dan’l, with neither chick nor child ” She shook her head mournfully.

Mrs White gave her one sharp glance which meant “and a good thing too”, but she did not say the words aloud; there was something so helpless and incapable about Mrs Wishing, that it was both difficult and useless to be severe with her, for the most cutting speeches could not rouse her from the mild despair into which she had sunk years ago. “I dessay you’re right, but I dunno,” was her only reply to all reproaches and exhortations, and finding this, Mrs White had almost ceased them, except when they were wrung from her by some unusual example of bad management.

“An’ so handy as she is,” continued Mrs Wishing, her wandering gaze caught for a moment by Lilac’s active little figure, “an’ that’s all your up-bringing, Mrs White, as I was saying just now to Mrs Greenways.”

Mrs White, who was now pouring out the tea, looked quickly up at the mention of Mrs Greenways. She would not ask, but her very soul longed to know what had been said.

“She was talkin’ about Lilac as I was in at Dimbleby’s getting a bunch of candles,” continued Mrs Wishing, “sayin’ how her picture was going to be took; an’ says she, `It’s a poor sort of picture as she’ll make, with a face as white as her pinafore. Now, if it was Agnetta,’ says she, `as has a fine nateral bloom, I could understand the gentleman wantin’ to paint her.’”

“I s’pose the gentleman knows best himself what he wants to paint,” said Mrs White.

“Lor’, of course he do,” Mrs Wishing hastened to reply; “and, as I said to Mrs Greenways, `Red cheeks or white cheeks don’t make much differ to a gal in life. It’s the upbringing as matters.’”

Mrs White looked hardly so pleased with this sentiment as her visitor had hoped. She was perfectly aware that it had been invented on the spot, and that Mrs Wishing would not have dared to utter it to Mrs Greenways. Moreover, the comparison between Lilac’s paleness and Agnetta’s fine bloom touched her keenly, for in this remark she recognised her sister-in-law’s tongue.

The rivalry between the two mothers was an understood thing, and though it had never reached open warfare, it was kept alive by the kindness of neighbours, who never forgot to repeat disparaging speeches. Mrs White’s opinions of the genteel uselessness of Bella and Gusta were freely quoted to Mrs Greenways, and she in her turn was always ready with a thrust at Lilac which might be carried to Mrs White.

When the widow had first heard of the artist’s proposal, her intense gratification was at once mixed with the thought, “What’ll Mrs Greenways think o’ that?”

But she did not express this triumph aloud. Even Lilac had no idea that her mother’s heart was overflowing with pleasure and pride because it was her child, her Lilac, whom the artist wished to paint. So now, though she bit her lip with vexation at Mrs Wishing’s speech, she took it with outward calmness, and only replied, with a glance at her daughter:

“Lilac never was one to think much about her looks, and I hope she never will be.”

Both the look and the words seemed to Lilac to have special meaning, almost as though her mother knew what she intended to do to-morrow; it seemed indeed to be written in large letters everywhere, and all that was said had something to do with it. This made her feel so guilty, that she began to be sure it would be very wrong to have a fringe. Should she give it up? It was a relief when Mrs Wishing, leaving the subject of the picture for one of nearer interest, proceeded to dwell on Dan’l and his failings, so that Lilac was not referred to again. This well-worn topic lasted for the rest of the visit, for Dan’l had been worse than usual. He had “got the neck of the bottle”, as Mrs Wishing expressed it, and had been in a hopeless state during the last week. Her sad monotonous voice went grinding on over the old story, while Lilac, washing up the tea things, carried on her own little fears, and hopes, and wishes in her own mind. No one watching her would have guessed what those wishes were: she looked so trim and neat, and handled the china as deftly as though she had no other thought than to do her work well. And yet the inside did not quite match this proper outside, for her whole soul was occupied with a beautiful vision herself with a fringe like Agnetta! It proved so engrossing that she hardly noticed Mrs Wishing’s departure, and when her mother spoke she looked up startled.

“Yon’s a poor creetur as never could stand alone and never will,” she said. “It was the same when she was a gal always hangin’ on to someone, always wantin’ someone else to do for her, and think for her. Well! empty sacks won’t never stand upright, and it’s no good tryin’ to make ’em.”

Lilac made no reply, and Mrs White, seizing the opportunity of impressing a useful lesson, continued:

“Lor’! it seems only the other day as Hepzibah was married to Daniel Wishing. A pretty gal she was, with clinging, coaxing ways, like the suckles in the hedge, and everyone she come near was ready to give her a helping hand. And at the wedding they all said, `There, now, she’s got the right man, Hepzibah has. A strong, steady feller, and a good workman an’ all, and one as’ll look after her an’ treat her kind.’ But I mind what I said to Mrs Pinhorn on that very day: `I hope it may be so,’ I says, `but it takes an angel, and not a man, to bear with a woman as weak an’ shiftless as Hepzibah, and not lose his temper.’ And now look at ’em! There’s Dan’l taken to drink, and when he’s out of himself he’ll lift his hand to her, and they’re both of ’em miserable. It does a deal o’ harm for a woman to be weak like that. She can’t stand alone, and she just pulls a man down along with her.”

The troubles of the Wishings were very familiar to Lilac’s ears, and, though she took her knitting and sat down on her little stool close to her mother, she did not listen much to what she was saying.

Mrs White, quite ignorant that her words of wisdom were wasted, continued admonishingly:

“So as you grow up, Lilac, and get to a woman, that’s what you’ve got to learn to trust to yourself; you won’t always have a mother to look to. And what you’ve got to do now is, to learn to do your work jest as well as you can, and then afterwards you’ll be able to stand firm on yer own two feet, and not go leaning up against other folk, or be beholden to nobody. That’s a good thing, that is. There’s a saying, `Heaven helps them as helps themselves’. If that poor Hepzibah had helped herself when she was a gal, she wouldn’t be such a daundering creetur now, and Dan’l, he wouldn’t be a curse instead of a blessin’.”

When Lilac went up to her tiny room in the roof that night, her head felt too full of confusing thoughts to make it possible to go to bed at once. She knelt on a box that stood in the window, fastened back the lattice, and, leaning on the sill, looked out into the night. The greyness of evening was falling over everything, but it was not nearly dark yet, so that she could see the windings of the chalky road which led down to the valley, and the church tower, and even one of the gable windows in Orchards Farm, where a light was twinkling. Generally this last object was a most interesting one to her, but to-night she did not notice outside things much, for her mind was too busy with its own concerns. She had, for the first time in her life, something quite new and strange to think of, something of her own which her mother did not know; and though this may seem a very small matter to people whose lives are full of events, to Lilac it was of immense importance, for until now her days had been as even and unvaried as those of any daisy that grows in a field. But to-morrow, two new things were to happen she was to have her hair cut, and to have her picture painted. “A poor sort of picture,” Mrs Greenways had said it would be, and, no doubt, Lilac agreed in her own mind Agnetta would make a far finer one Agnetta, who had red cheeks, and a fringe already, and could dress herself so much smarter. Would a fringe really improve her? Agnetta said so. And yet her mother was it worth while to risk vexing her? But it would grow. Yes, but in the picture it would never grow. The more she thought, the more difficult it was to see her way clear; as the evening grew darker and more shadowy, so her reflections became dimmer and more confused; at last they were suddenly stopped altogether, for a bat which had come forth on its evening travels flapped straight against her face under the eaves. Thoroughly roused, Lilac drew in her head, shut her window, and was very soon fast asleep in bed.

Night is said to bring counsel, and perhaps it did so in some way, although she slept too soundly to dream, for punctually at eleven o’clock the next morning she was at the meeting-place appointed by Agnetta at the farm.

This was a loft over the cows’ stables, the only place when, at that hour, they could be sure of no interruption.

“The proper place ’ud be my bedroom,” Agnetta had said, “where there’s a mirror an’ all; but it’s Bella’s too, you see, an’ just now she’s making a new bonnet, and she’s forever there trying it on. But I’ll bring the scissors and do it in a jiffy.”

And here was Agnetta armed with the scissors, and a certain authority of manner she always used with her cousin.

“Tek off yer bonnet and undo yer plaits,” she said, opening and shutting the bright scissors with a snap, as though she longed to begin.

Lilac stood with her back against a truss of hay, rather shrinking away, for now that the moment had really come she felt frightened, and all her doubts returned. She had the air of a pale little victim before her executioner.

“Come,” said Agnetta, with another snap.

“Oh, Agnetta, do you really think they’ll like it?” faltered Lilac.

“What I really think is that you’re a ninny,” said the determined Agnetta; “an’ I’m not agoin’ to wait here while you shilly-shally. Is it to be off or on?”

“Oh off, I suppose,” said Lilac.

With trembling fingers she took off her bonnet, and unfastened her hair from its plait. It fell like a dark silky veil over her shoulders.

“Lor’!” said Agnetta, “you have got a lot of it.”

She stood for a second staring at her victim open-mouthed with the scissors upraised in one hand, then advanced, and grasping a handful of the soft hair drew it down over Lilac’s face.

“Oh, Agnetta,” cried an imploring voice behind the screen thus formed, “you’ll be careful! You won’t tek off too much.”

“Come nearer the light,” said Agnetta.

Still holding the hair, she drew her cousin towards the wide open doors of the loft. “Now,” she said, “I can see what I’m at, an’ I shan’t be a minute.”

The steel scissors struck coldly against Lilac’s forehead. It was too late to resist now. She held her breath. Grind, grind, snip! they went in Agnetta’s remorseless fingers, and some soft waving lengths of hair fell on the ground. It certainly did not take long; after a few more short clips and snips Agnetta had finished, and there stood Lilac fashionably shorn, with the poor discarded locks lying at her feet.

It was curious to see how much Agnetta’s handiwork had altered her cousin’s face. Lilac’s forehead was prettily shaped, and though she had worn her hair “scrattled” off it, there were little waving rings and bits which were too short to be “scrattled”, and these had softened its outline. But now the pure white forehead was covered by a lump of hair which came straight across the middle of it, and the small features below looked insignificant. The expression of intelligent modesty which had made Lilac look different from other girls had gone; she was just an ordinary pale-faced little person with a fringe.

“There!” exclaimed Agnetta triumphantly as she drew a small hand-glass from her pocket; “now you’ll see as how I was right. You won’t hardly know yerself.”

Lilac took it, longing yet fearing to see herself. From the surface of the glass a stranger seemed to return her glance someone she had never seen before, with quite a different look in her eyes. Certainly she was altered. Was it for the better? She did not know, and before she could tell she must get more used to this new Lilac White. At present she had more fear than admiration for her.

“Clump! clump!” came the sound of heavy feet up the loft ladder. Lilac let the glass fall at her side, and turned a terrified gaze on Agnetta.

“Oh, what’s that?” she cried. “Let me hide don’t let anyone see me!”

Agnetta burst into a loud laugh.

“Well, you are a ninny, Lilac White. Are you goin’ to hide from everyone now you’ve got a fringe? You as are goin’ to have your picture took. An’ after all,” she added, as a face and shoulders appeared at the top of the ladder. “It’s only Peter.”

Peter’s rough head and blunt, uncouth features were framed by the square opening in the floor of the loft. There they remained motionless, for the sight of Agnetta and Lilac where he had been prepared to find only hay and straw brought him to a standstill. His face and the tips of his large ears got very red as he saw Lilac’s confusion, and he went a step lower down the ladder, but his eyes were still above the level of the floor.

“Well,” said Agnetta, still giggling, “we’ll hear what Peter thinks of it. Don’t she look a deal better with her hair cut so, Peter?”

Peter’s grey-green eyes, not unkindly in expression, fixed themselves on his cousin’s face. In her turn Lilac gazed back at them, half-frightened, yet beseeching mutely for a favourable opinion; it was like looking into a second mirror. She waited anxiously for his answer. It came at last, slowly, from Peter’s invisible mouth.

“No,” he said, “I liked it best as it wur afore.” As he spoke the head disappeared, and they heard him go clumping down the ladder again. The words fell heavily on Lilac’s ears. “Best as it wur afore.” Perhaps everyone would think so too. She looked dismally first at the locks of hair on the ground and then at Agnetta’s unconcerned face.

“Well, you’ve no call to mind what he says anyhow,” said the latter cheerfully. “He don’t know what’s what.”

“I most wish,” said Lilac, as she turned to leave the loft, “that I hadn’t done it.”

As she spoke, the distant sound of the church clock was heard. There was only just time to get to the foot of the hill, and she said a hurried good-bye to Agnetta, tying on her bonnet as she ran across the fields. She generally hated the sun-bonnet, but to-day for the first time she found a comfort in its deep brim, which sheltered this new Lilac White a little from the world. She almost hoped that the artist would change his mind and let her keep it on, instead of holding it in her hand.