_STORM AND SUNLIGHT_
"And shed on me a smile of beams, that told
Of a bright world beyond the thunder-piles."
--F. TENNYSON.
John's old friend would not part with him till late in the afternoon
of the next day, which was Saturday. Though the time of year was
late June, the heavy heat was like July; it wearied John, strong
young man as he was, and he felt that Mrs. Bland, the schoolmaster's
wife, was quite right when she insisted on his having tea before he
started on his walk of ten miles. She also expressed an opinion that
a thunderstorm was coming--her head ached, and that was a sure sign;
John had much better stay where he was till Monday.
"Thank you, ma'am, but there's my mother," said John.
Mrs. Bland's grey curls and the pink ribbons in her cap wagged as she
stood looking out of the window.
"Look at that sky," she said. "Those are thunderclouds coming up, as
sure as I'm alive, and my poor head never deceives me. And surely
you're old enough to please yourself; a grown-up man like you needn't
be in such a hurry to run home to his mother."
"Ah, Mrs. Bland, you've never seen John's mother, or you'd know more
about it," said the schoolmaster from his corner.
It was only two years since he, who always thought himself a
confirmed old bachelor, had been fascinated by that smiling face,
with its curls and pink ribbons. In some ways his marriage had made
him much more comfortable. Mrs. Bland was a capital housekeeper, and
he had never had any talent for taking care of himself. But she was
small in mind and great in gossip, the schoolmaster's character being
the contrary of both these, and thus his frame of mind towards her
became gradually one of good-natured pity, which did not prevent him,
being quick of tongue, from snubbing her sharply whenever she seemed
to deserve it. But Mrs. Bland smiled through it all. She had a good
home and a good husband, though the village was a little dull for her
taste, and though he, she said, had all the silly fancies natural to
a man of his age.
"I don't know Mrs. Randal, that's true," she said; "but if she
expects her son in to the minute, and isn't ever disappointed, why,
she's a lucky woman, I say."
"That's just what she is," said the schoolmaster, with his kind,
sharp smile; "and her son John is a lucky lad. Well, John, my boy,
start when you like. If there is a storm, you'll find plenty of
shelter along the road."
John, who had been listening silently while his affairs were
discussed, rose suddenly to his full height in the smart little
parlour. "I'll be off at once, sir," he said.
A few minutes later they stood at their door and watched him striding
off down the hot silent road on his way westward, into the depths of
the quiet country, while in the south, as Mrs. Bland again pointed
out to her husband, great threatening clouds climbed slowly up the
sky.
"There goes a fine fellow," said Mr. Bland deliberately. "It's a
real pleasure to see a young man walk like that, and John Randal is
as well made in mind and soul, let me tell you, as he is in body. If
that chap had lived in history, and had had a chance, he would have
been a hero. He would have been a knight without fear and without
reproach. No, we won't despair of England as long as a few men like
that are left in her villages. Fellows like John are the backbone of
England, mind you."
"And a pretty stiff backbone too," said Mrs. Bland half to herself.
"Well, Isaac, you talk like a book, I'm sure. Your sort of hero is a
bit too rough and dull and loutish for me, you know; but I wish him
well, all the same, and I hope he won't catch rheumatic fever out of
the storm that's coming. If that was the case, his mother might have
reason to wish he'd stayed away a bit longer."
"Mrs. Randal is a worthy mother of a worthy son," said the
schoolmaster. "Those two are the salt of Markwood, Jemima. You
wouldn't believe me if I told you all I know of their influence in
that ignorant village."
"I'm sure I'm very glad to hear it. There's a drop of rain, and
didn't I hear thunder in the distance? I said so. John's got the
start of it to be sure. We shall have it first, but if it don't
catch him before he gets home never you believe me again."
"A very unpleasant alternative," said Mr. Bland, following her into
the cottage.
The storm, once gathered and rising, broke rapidly, and overtook John
before he was half-way home. It burst upon him in the middle of a
long, bare hill, without even a hedge to give him a little shelter,
the road being bounded on each side by wide-spreading slopes where
wheat was growing. These stretched away to great dark woods, which
looked almost black in their heavy midsummer foliage as the evening
closed in unnaturally dark.
Dog Down, as that hill was called, was a part of the road dreaded by
travellers in winter, when bitter north-east winds swept across it
without any break or defence. It was a serious adventure to cross
Dog Down in the face of a snowstorm; there were stories of men,
horses, and carts having been blown bodily into the ditch by the
roadside, and rescued with difficulty after lying there in the
freezing snow for hours. No such danger as this, of course, lay in
wait for John. The heat of the day had been so great, the air even
now was so fatiguing and sultry, that he had been glad to come out of
the oppression of the woods into the open road down hill. But it was
not by any means pleasant, even for a strong man used to being out in
all weathers, to be caught in a violent thunderstorm on the very face
of Dog Down.
The flashes of lightning were continuous; they dazzled John's eyes.
All the air round him seemed alive and alight with flame, while the
roaring and cracking of the thunder almost made the earth shake under
his feet. At first there was no rain; but in a few minutes it came
down like a waterspout, and as he walked steadily on, his head bent,
his parcel tucked under his coat for safety, it soaked him from head
to foot as effectually as if a large tank of water had been
overturned just above his head. In two minutes the dry dusty road
was a running stream, which cut ditches for itself in the chalk soil.
The roar of the thunder and the rushing of the rain seemed to melt
together into one great noise which filled the world, while every
half minute the brooding gloom of the clouds was broken by keen,
sudden flashes of light. It is at all times a lonely country, with
few farmhouses, the farms being very large; with villages several
miles apart, and cottages standing alone here and there, half hidden
in corners of the woods. Travellers on the roads are few, and that
evening it seemed to John as if nobody was out but himself, for
during more than half-an-hour's walk through constant thunder and
lightning and drowning rain, he saw neither a human being nor an
animal on the road. All the better for them; it was not weather to
be braved with much safety, not to mention pleasure. Twice, in a
moment's lull, John heard strange crashes in the woods at the foot of
the hill, towards which he was walking, and he was afterwards told
that several fine trees had been struck and split by the lightning.
He thought then that his own escape on the face of that bare down had
been rather wonderful. But even then he did not regret having
refused Mrs. Bland's kind offer of a bed till Monday: and when he was
in the midst of the storm he only thought of his mother's anxiety,
and what a good thing it was that he had insisted on getting home
to-night.
"I was that set on getting home," he said afterwards, "one might have
thought I'd guessed what was going to happen."
"It was ordered so," his mother answered in her quiet way; and
presently she turned to a friend and quoted the sweet old proverb,
"Who goes a-mothering finds violets in the lane."
The storm was lessening, the lightning had become less vivid, the
thunder less tremendous, the intervals between them longer, though
heavy sheets of rain still poured from the low-hanging clouds, when
John, after two miles of level walking along the white road between
the woods that clustered at the foot of Dog Down, entered the long
scattered village or little town of Carsham. His own home was nearly
four miles further on. The broad street of Carsham lay still, as if
everybody was asleep, in that stormy summer twilight. There was no
sound but the splashing of the rain, as it ran in a hundred little
watercourses and poured in cascades over the roofs, and flooded the
spouts of the long row of houses. Here and there a light glimmered
from a window; the ten or a dozen public-houses of which Carsham
street boasted had lit up early that dismal evening, and their red
blinds looked warm and cheery. At the Red Lion, the largest inn, the
door stood open, and there was a noise of voices inside. Four more
miles! A good fire to dry one's self at, and a snug corner to rest
in till the storm was over. John almost stopped and turned in. He
did not really know why with a sudden, impatient movement he shook
the rain from his shoulders, and muttering to himself, "I'd best get
on," strode past the Red Lion, past the White Horse, the Dog and
Duck, the Wheatsheaf, the Nag's Head, past the line of low cottages,
over the bridge, where the mill stream came tearing down with a
mighty noise, and so on in the shadow of tall trees, under the wall
of Carsham Park, Sir Henry Smith's great empty mansion, whose grounds
ran a long way beside the high road here.
Gradually, as John walked steadily on, the violence of the rain
became less. Before he was clear of Carsham Park it had almost
stopped; a lovely gold light was beginning to shine in the sky, and
through the noise of the dripping trees and bushes which bordered the
road, and of the little streams which ran beside and across it, the
sweet voices of the birds broke out suddenly in their evening hymn.
The road here was bordered on the left by high park palings, behind
which a row of great beech-trees only half hid a sheet of water in
the valley, now shining gold in the sunset. From this the broad
green slopes of the park, bordered with masses of trees, led up to
the broad grey front of a large house, Carsham Park itself, with long
rows of shuttered windows gazing dismally down its beautiful view.
On the right-hand side of the road were high park-like fields, with a
low steep bank descending to the road, along which stood a row of
large old thorn-trees; their blossom, almost dead, still filled the
air with its faint heavy scent, and their stems and roots, lying
against the bank, were twisted into all manner of strange shapes.
The low sun, now shining down the road, dazzling John's eyes as it
made the watery world flash and sparkle like a thousand mirrors, fell
full upon the roots of the largest of these old trees as he walked
past it. He stood still and stared at the strangest sight on which
his eyes had ever fallen.
The gnarled roots made a kind of rustic cradle. Long, brilliantly
green grass, growing against them, clustering over them, were a
startling contrast in that dazzling gleam of light with the even
stronger colour of a red and black plaid shawl, which lay wrapped
round something in the hollow. And this something was alive--it was
moving. A small white arm had pushed itself through the folds of the
shawl, and as John stood breathless, a little moaning voice,
frightened, unhappy, miserable, fell upon ears that had certainly
heard it before. Could this be the woman's little girl--the child
who had slept in John's arms twenty-four hours before? At any rate,
the shawl was the same; he would have sworn to it anywhere. To be
sure, she said she was going to Fiddler's Green. This was not the
direct way, but she seemed a queer sort of woman. But where was she?
What could she be thinking of to leave the little thing here by the
roadside! Had she gone somewhere for shelter from the storm? Then
why not take the child with her?
These unanswerable questions hurried each other through John's mind
as he stood in the road, his wet clothes clinging to him, the birds
singing joyfully all round and about, the yellow sun just setting.
But it was only possible for a moment to stand and listen to that
heart-breaking little cry. The child was evidently in pain--hungry,
most likely--and where was its mother, and what was to be done? John
laid down his damp parcel on a tuft of grass, and kneeling on the
bank, gently turned back the corner of the shawl that hid the little
thing's face. Her large blue eyes had dark circles round them, her
small cheeks seemed to have become smaller since yesterday, and her
whole look more wistful, more unhappy. She opened her eyes and gazed
at John, and for a moment the feeble crying ceased. Then again
seemed to return the tiredness, the misery, the lonely hunger and
pain; her eyelids drooped, her face puckered itself into sad lines,
and she moaned and cried as before.
"Well, this is a queer business, my word!" muttered John; and then he
began to growl in his kindest tones, "There, never mind! Poor baby!
Come along then!"
He lifted the child from her strange cradle, and stepped back into
the road, for a slight wind had risen after the storm, and even the
solid old thorn-trees were shaking down heavy showers of drops on the
grass at their feet. Though he rocked the little thing and talked to
her, she went on crying mournfully, and he looked up and down the
road in despair.
"She wants her mother, to be sure, but a pretty sort of mother she's
got! Why, she's wet to the skin. Where can that woman be? Well,
I'm not going to stand here all night waiting for her, and I'm not
going to leave this here child alone under the tree. If she can't
take care of it, serve her right to lose it. I'll make inquiries
to-morrow; she ain't far off, I suspect. In the Nag's Head or Dog
and Duck, I shouldn't wonder: she looked that sort. There, cheer up,
little one. Can you talk now? Can you tell us what your name is?
Look here, little one, stop that noise, there's a pretty. Come, my
name's John; what's yours?"
The child stopped crying, and almost a little smile dawned in her
eyes as she looked up into the brown face that was bent over her.
"Lily," she said, in a clear, small, silvery voice that fairly
startled John; and then, nestling down on his broad shoulder, she
seemed to fall asleep.
John hesitated no longer, but picked up his parcel, and thus laden
started off home. His long swinging steps covered the distance in
not much more than half-an-hour, and he opened his garden gate before
night had closed in.
"John!" cried his mother. "Why, what have you got there, my dear?"