White Lilac

White Lilac
by Amy Walton
CHAPTER ONE.
A BUNCH OF LILAC.
"What's in a name?"--Shakespeare.
Mrs James White stood at her cottage door casting anxious glances up
at the sky, and down the hill towards the village. If it were fine the
rector's wife had promised to come and see the baby, "and certainly,"
thought Mrs White, shading her eyes with her hand, "you might call it
fine--for April." There were sharp showers now and then, to be sure,
but the sun shone between whiles, and sudden rays darted through her
little window strong enough to light up the whole room. Their
searching glances disclosed nothing she was ashamed of, for they
showed that the kitchen was neat and well ordered, with bits of good
substantial furniture in it, such as a long-bodied clock, table, and
dresser of dark oak. These polished surfaces smiled back again
cheerfully as the light touched them, and the row of pewter plates on
the high mantelshelf glistened so brightly that they were as good as so
many little mirrors. But beside these useful objects the sunlight found
out two other things in the room, at which it pointed its bright finger
with special interest. One of these was a large bunch of pure white lilac
which stood on the window sill in a brown mug, and the other was a
wicker cradle in which lay something very much covered up in blankets.
After a last lingering look down the hill, where no one was in sight,
Mrs White shut her door and settled herself to work, with the lilac at
her elbow, and the cradle at her foot. She rocked this gently while she
sewed, and turned her head now and then, when her needle wanted
threading, to smell the delicate fragrance of the flowers. Her face was

grave, with a patient and rather sad expression, as though her memories
were not all happy ones; but by degrees, as she sat there working and
rocking, some pleasant thought brought a smile to her lips and softened
her eyes. This became so absorbing that presently she did not see a
figure pass the window, and when a knock at the door followed, she
sprang up startled to open it for her expected visitor.
"I'd most given you up, ma'am," she said as the lady entered, "but I'm
very glad to see you."
It was not want of cordiality but want of breath which caused a
beaming smile to be the only reply to this welcome. The hill was steep,
the day was mild, and Mrs Leigh was rather stout. She at once dropped
with a sigh of relief, but still smiling, into a chair, and cast a glance full
of interest at the cradle, which Mrs White understood as well as words.
Bending over it she peeped cautiously in amongst the folds of flannel.
"She's so fast, it's a sin to take her up, ma'am," she murmured, "but I
would like you to see her."
Mrs Leigh had now recovered her power of speech. "Don't disturb her
for the world," she said, "I'm not going away yet. I shall be glad to rest
a little. She'll wake presently, I dare say. What is it," she continued,
looking round the room, "that smells so delicious? Oh, what lovely
lilac!" as her eye rested on the flowers in the window.
Mrs White had taken up her sewing again.
"I always liked the laylocks myself, ma'am," she said, "partic'ler the
white ones. It were a common bush in the part I lived as a gal, but
there's not much hereabouts."
"Where did you get it?" asked Mrs Leigh, leaning forward to smell the
pure-white blossoms; "I thought there was only the blue in the village."
"Why, no more there is," said Mrs White with a half-ashamed smile;
"but Jem, he knows I'm a bit silly over them, and he got 'em at
Cuddingham t'other day. You see, the day I said I'd marry him he gave

me a bunch of white laylocks--and that's ten years ago. Sitting still so
much more than I'm used lately, with the baby, puts all sorts of
foolishness into my head, and when you knocked just now it gave me
quite a start, for the smell of the laylocks took me right back to the days
when we were sweetheartin'."
"How is Jem?" asked Mrs Leigh, glancing at a gun which stood in the
chimney corner.
"He's well, ma'am, thank you, but out early and home late. There's bin
poaching in the woods lately, and the keepers have a lot of trouble with
'em."
"None of our people, I hope?" said the rector's wife anxiously.
"Oh dear, no, ma'am! A gipsy lot--a cruel wild set, to be sure, from
what Jem says, and fight desperate."