White Lilac | Page 3

and even Violets were not unknown in Danecross, but who had ever
heard of Lilac?
Mrs Greenways said so, and she had a right to speak, not only because
she lived at Orchards Farm, which was the biggest in the parish, but
because her husband was Mrs White's brother. She said it at all times
and in all places, but chiefly at "Dimbleby's", for if you dropped in
there late in the afternoon you were pretty sure to find acquaintances,
eager to hear and tell news; and this was specially the case on Saturday,
which was shopping day.

Dimbleby's was quite a large shop, and a very important one, for there
was no other in the village; it was rather dark, partly because the roof
was low-pitched, and partly because of the wonderful number and
variety of articles crammed into it, so that it would have puzzled
anyone to find out what Dimbleby did not sell. The air was also a little
thick to breathe, for there floated in it a strange mixture, made up of
unbleached calico, corduroy, smockfrocks, boots, and bacon. All these
articles and many others were to be seen piled up on shelves or
counters, or dangling from the low beams overhead; and, lately, there
had been added to the stock a number of small clocks, stowed away out
of sight. Their hasty ceaseless little voices sounded in curious contrast
to the slowness of things in general at Dimbleby's: "Tick-tack,
tick-tack,--Time flies, time flies", they seemed to be saying over and
over again. Without effect, for at Dimbleby's time never flew; he
plodded along on dull and heavy feet, and if he had wings at all he
dragged them on the ground. You had only to look at the face of the
master of the shop to see that speed was impossible to him, and that he
was justly known as the slowest man in the parish both in speech and
action. This was hardly considered a failing, however, for it had its
advantages in shopping; if he was slow himself, he was quite willing
that others should be so too, and to stand in unmoved calm while Mrs
Jones fingered a material to test its quality, or Mrs Wilson made up her
mind between a spot and a sprig. It was therefore a splendid place for a
bit of talk, for he was so long in serving, and his customers were so
long in choosing, that there was an agreeable absence of pressure, and
time to drink a cup of gossip down to its last drop of interest.
"I don't understand myself what Mary White would be at," said Mrs
Greenways.
She stood waiting in the shop while Dimbleby thoughtfully weighed
out some sugar for her; a stout woman with a round good-natured face,
framed in a purple-velvet bonnet and nodding flowers; her long mantle
matched the bonnet in stylishness, and was richly trimmed with
imitation fur, but the large strong basket on her arm, already partly full
of parcels, was quite out of keeping with this splendid attire. The two
women who stood near, listening with eager respect to her remarks,

were of very different appearance; their poor thin shawls were put on
without any regard for fashion, and their straight cotton dresses were
short enough to show their clumsy boots, splashed with mud from the
miry country lanes. The edge of Mrs Greenways' gown was also
draggled and dirty, for she had not found it easy to hold it up and carry
a large basket at the same time.
"I thought," she went on, "as how Mary White was all for plain names,
and homely ways, and such-like."
"She do say so," said the woman nearest to her, cautiously.
"Then, as I said to Greenways this morning, `It's not a consistent act for
your sister to name her child like that. Accordin' to her you ought to
have names as simple and common as may be.' Why, think of what she
said when I named my last, which is just a year ago. `And what do you
think of callin' her?' says she. `Why,' says I, `I think of giving her the
name of Agnetta.' `Dear me!' says she; `whyever do you give your girls
such fine names? There's your two eldest, Isabella and Augusta; I'd call
this one Betsy, or Jane, or Sarah, or something easy to say, and
suitable.'"
"Did she, now?" said both the listeners at once.
"And it's not only that," continued Mrs Greenways with a growing
sound of injury in her voice, "but she's always on at me when she gets a
chance about the way I bring my girls up. `You'd a deal better teach her
to make good butter,' says she, when I told her that Bella was