_HOME AT MARKWOOD_
"Lord, thou hast given me a cell
Wherein to dwell;
A little house, whose humble roof
Is weather-proof."
--R. HERRICK.
Markwood, the village where John Randal had lived all his life, and
his father and grandfather before him, lay in the valley of the same
little river that spread out into the ornamental water at Carsham
Park, and turned the old mill at Carsham.
On the London road, not very far beyond where John had found little
Lily, there was a place where four ways met, with a tall white
finger-post pointing each way. There was the high road, running
straight through from Carsham into even quieter and more distant
country, with meadows and rows of trees leading down to the river on
one side, and high green fields and woods on the other. Then there
was a white chalky road through Fiddler's Wood, going straight off
uphill to the right, hidden at once in the deep shade of the
clustering beech-trees. Then there was a narrow lane to the left,
which led past an untidy duck-pond, over a low bridge, past some tall
poplars, a thatched cottage or two, and a large farmhouse, so winding
on, with broad green margins, till it became the regular village
street, where the cottages stood nearer together, each in its large
straggling garden full of flowers and fruit. Farther on were the
church, the vicarage, and the little old school; then the lane went
on its way between tall hedges, now sweet with honeysuckle and gay
with wild roses beginning to fade, till it crossed another low bridge
over the quiet, shallow river, and ended its long loop by joining the
high road again, about a mile after leaving it.
Thus it was very possible for the whole world to go driving along the
high road from London to the west without seeing or knowing anything
of the small village that lay buried there in the valley; for even
the church tower, low and square, was hidden in summer by the trees.
John's cottage was on the left-hand side of the village street, the
side that faced the river, the high road, and the woods. It was very
old; the low walls were coloured yellow, and the roof was thatched,
but all was trim and in good order. A beautiful _Gloire de Dijon_
rose climbed over part of the front, the door and one window being
also shaded by an old jessamine now just beginning to show its sweet
white stars.
The cottage stood sideways to the road, and in front of the door
there was a small paved yard, entered by a gate. The path which led
to the cottage-door passed beyond it to the garden, where John spent
most of his spare time. He had several fruit-trees, plenty of
vegetables, and in front of these a flower-garden full of roses and
white pinks. John had a special fancy for white flowers. At present
the most conspicuous object in the garden was a row of tall white
lilies, which stood up like a wall between it and the yard.
On the other side of the yard, opposite the house, were one or two
sheds and buildings, so overgrown with ivy and roses that their old
age was beautiful; and in front of them, facing the road, but entered
also by a door into the yard, was John's forge. Here there were
horses generally standing outside waiting to be shod, stretching
their patient noses over the low paling, as if they liked to smell
the flowers and to watch John's mother as she went backwards and
forwards to the pump in the yard. Inside the forge was a warm red
light, and a constant ringing and clanking noise of beaten iron; and
the tall young blacksmith, strong and clever at his work, was a very
grimy object as he bent over his anvil or blew up his fire.
John's mother was not the only person who found the village a
different place when he was away. The farmers for a long way round
would not let any one else shoe their horses, and grumbled mightily;
the old vicar missed his fine bass voice on Sunday in the choir;
there was nobody else who would pick up a small child in the road and
carry it on his shoulder, safe and triumphant above its companions,
yet a little frightened at finding itself so high in the air. John
had many friends, and yet he was not the sort of man to be popular
with every one: his likes and dislikes were very strong. Like many
such simple, slow-natured men, he was not easily made suspicious or
angry; but when the anger came it was more serious than that of most
people.
Mrs. Randal had not spent that stormy evening alone. Mary Alfrick,
the daughter of a small farmer near by, had come in to see her about
tea-time, as she often did, and had stayed on for hours, unable to
leave the poor mother alone in her terror at the storm, her anxiety
for John.
"I didn't know you were afraid of thunder and lightning, Mrs.
Randal," said the girl, as they sat together in the unnatural
darkness, when the vivid flashes had become less constant, and the
rushing rain was almost loud enough to drown the more distant thunder.
"Ah! 'tisn't exactly the thunder and lightning I'm afraid of, Polly,"
said John's mother, putting her hand to her head, and looking
nervously round the low room; "it's only the thought of John's being
out in it. Some of the flashes were so near, I think thunderbolts
must have fallen."
"He's taken shelter in Carsham, I expect. That's why he isn't here
now."
"I don't think so--no, he wouldn't do that. He'd make the best of
his way home. Let's see--if he'd stayed to tea with Mr. Bland----"
These calculations took some time, as neither of them knew much about
the road or the distances.
Presently the rain stopped, the evening light began to shine, and
Mary, by way of cheering her companion and making the time seem
shorter, persuaded her to come into the garden and look at the
flowers. It was wonderful how John's beautiful row of lilies had
stood through the storm. Their scent and that of the other flowers
made the air breathe perfume.
Mrs. Randal and Mary rejoiced over the lilies. Presently Mary began
to say in a doubtful tone, lifting her grey eyes a little wistfully,
that she supposed she ought to go home.
"Nay, Polly, stop along with me till my boy comes," said Mrs. Randal.
"I don't know how it is, I've a queer feeling as if something was
going to happen. My dear, if there's trouble hanging over me, I'd
sooner have you here than anybody else, you know."
"What can be going to happen? You shouldn't go fancying things,"
said the girl, a little roughly. "John's late, to be sure, but he's
stopped at Carsham through the storm, and a good thing too."
She said nothing more, however, about going home. As the damp
twilight fell they went back into the house, and sat there listening
to every sound, till just as darkness had fallen they heard John's
step in the road, and then heard him open the gate in a rather slow
and fumbling fashion. The door was open, and his mother hurried out
to meet him, while Mary stood still in the middle of the kitchen.
"What have I got here? You may well ask, mother. Something pretty,
I can tell you, though I did pick it up by the roadside."
"But what is it? A baby! Picked it up by the roadside! My
goodness! Where?"
"Under them old thorns opposite Carsham House."
"But, John, you're safe yourself, my lad? You wasn't out in the
storm?"
"I was, though. Feel my coat--and so was this poor little mite,
afore I got hold of her."
Bending his head as usual under the low doorway, John came with his
burden into the brightly lighted kitchen, and dropped his parcel and
stick with a sigh of relief on the well-scrubbed table. Then he put
up his foot on a stool, and gently lowered the child to his knee,
folding back the corner of shawl which had sheltered her face.
"There, wake up, Lily; sit up and look about you, little one," he
said.
"Well, I never! But what a pretty child! Left by the roadside!
Polly, did you ever hear the like?" cried his mother in bewilderment.
John lifted his flushed face, in which the colour deepened a little.
"I beg your pardon, Miss Alfrick--didn't see you."
Whatever Mrs. Bland may have thought, the village considered John's
manners very good.
Mary Alfrick smiled. "You've got something else to think about," she
said in a low voice. "I've been keeping your mother company."
"'Twas good of you," John muttered.
Mary came a step nearer, and they all three gazed with deep interest
at the little creature on John's knee. She sat upright, staring from
one woman to the other--Mrs. Randal's worn face and spectacles, the
grave yet attractive look of Mary's earnest eyes. The shawl had
fallen back from her little white flannel dress, her fair curls were
ruffled, the small face and hands and feet were stained with mud and
rain. Round her neck hung a tiny gold locket on a piece of
discoloured blue ribbon.
"I'll tell you what, John, my dear," said Mrs. Randal, peering
through her spectacles, "this is no poor person's child. There's
something wrong behind all this. Why"--laying her hand on Lily's
frock--"this here flannel cost ever so much a yard--didn't it, Polly?
And look! what's that round her neck? _Where_ did you say you found
her?"
John repeated his story. "But that wasn't the first time I'd seen
her," he said. "I travelled to Moreton Road with her and her mother
on the railway."
"You came by the railway, John! Well, and what was her mother like?"
"She didn't look good for much," John slowly confessed. "But she
told me out of her own mouth that it was her youngest, and she'd had
nine, and her husband out o' work, and she in the hospital with a
broken leg, and they were going to her mother at Fiddler's Green."
Mrs. Randal looked wonderingly over her spectacles.
"I doubt she was taking you in, John," she murmured thoughtfully.
"Well, anyhow, she's a sweet child," said John, "and her name's Lily."
"That's queer, to be sure, when you're so fond of lilies," said Mary
Alfrick, and her words brought a smile to John's grave face.
"There's a lot yet as I don't understand," began Mrs. Randal, and
poor little Lily seemed to be of the same opinion, for she was tired
now of looking at the strange faces, and began again to remember that
she was hungry. Would they never have done talking? perhaps she
thought. Anyhow, she turned suddenly towards John, looked up into
his face, and then laid her head against his coat and began to cry
and sob piteously.
"I say, mother, she's hungry," said John, with great concern.
"To be sure she is, poor lamb. Here, I'll sit by the fire and you
put her in my lap, and Polly'll warm some milk, and you just go
straight away and change your clothes, John. I ain't going to have
you sit down to supper like a soaked sponge!"
John and his mother sat up late that night after Mary was gone home,
and the child, warmed, dried, and fed, had fallen fast asleep on the
old sofa in the corner. Mrs. Randal was more convinced than ever
that she was a lady's child. John could not yet bring himself to
believe that the poor woman in the train had told him a string of
lies. Somebody might have given her the flannel frock, he said. The
locket seemed more puzzling. It was engraved in front with the
letter L, and inside the glass at the back there was a tiny curl of
dark hair. There was no other mark about the child by which she
could be identified.
John's mother was half unwilling that he should carry out the plan he
had made, to search the neighbourhood next day for the woman who had
disappeared.
"The child's better off with us than with her, John," she said.
"You wouldn't say so if you was her mother," John answered, rather
shortly.
"Maybe I wouldn't; but you mark my words, that woman's no more her
mother than I am. There's something wrong, and it was a kind
Providence that brought you along the road this evening, John."
"Well--I don't know, I'm sure," he growled out thoughtfully.
Sunday morning dawned calm and bright, after the storm of the night
before. The roads and trees were still wet, the little river ran
bank full, but the flowers held up their heads bravely, and the air
was full of colour and sweet scent.
Mary Alfrick came down the lane from her home and stopped outside the
blacksmith's cottage on her way to church. The door was standing
open, the sun was shining in on the red floor, and through the pots
of geraniums in the window. The tall old clock ticked loudly
opposite the door, the cat was washing herself on the step. Then a
little child's voice broke out suddenly in sweet chattering tones.
Mary pushed open the yard gate and walked in without further delay.
In the village she was generally thought rather "high," this girl who
stood there, tall and slim, at John's cottage door. The girls of
Markwood were a little shy of her; the young men were mostly afraid
of her; she was not a person with whom any liberties at all could be
taken. At the same time her home life was not a very happy one. Her
mother had died when she was a child, and her father, a rough,
ill-tempered man, had married again not long afterwards. There was
now a large family of young children, and they and the farm gave
quite work enough to Mary and her stepmother, a weak, selfish,
complaining sort of woman. It would have been difficult, in fact,
for Alfrick's farm to get on without Mary.
She did her duty, though rather roughly and hardly sometimes,
perhaps; the little half-brothers and sisters respected her more than
they loved her. She did not trouble herself much about smart
clothes, and very little of the farmer's money was spent on her. And
yet, if any one asked who was the best-looking and most superior girl
in the village, they were sure to hear Mary Alfrick's name in answer.
She was always ready to do a kindness, though she might be sometimes
too plain-spoken to please her neighbours. It was not easy to read
her thoughts, and yet one could not look into her face without
trusting her. Not quite a pretty face, perhaps; a pale skin, a
quiet, rather sad-looking mouth, dark earnest grey eyes under level
black eyebrows, dark hair lying in smooth waves--no frizzes or
fringes--on a broad, low, white forehead. Such was Mary; and as she
stood at John's door that morning, an unusually sweet smile lighted
up her eyes and a faint colour flushed her cheeks.
The large armchair, covered with red chintz, was pushed back from the
fireside, and there sat John in his Sunday clothes, his few treasured
books on the shelf over his head, his solemn face beaming for once
with happy smiles, as he danced little Lily on his knee. She was
prattling and singing to herself with baby unconsciousness, the tears
and terrors of the night before forgotten, finding endless amusement,
as it seemed, in staring at John, and sometimes putting up a small
hand to pull his hair. Then John burst out laughing, and Lily
laughed and danced all the more. She looked like a fairy or spirit
child, so small and delicate, her silky curls shining in the sunlight.
When Mary came to the door John started to his feet, lifted the child
to his shoulder, and came forward with outstretched hand to welcome
her.
"Oh, good morning," she said; "I see the little one's all right.
Where's Mrs. Randal?"
"She's gone to church," John explained; "we couldn't both leave the
child, you see, and she ain't so used to mother, so I'm stopping at
home to see after her and the dinner; won't you sit down?"
"No, thank you, I'm going to church myself. Well, she is a sweet
little thing, to be sure! She won't look at me. I wonder who she
belongs to, don't you?"
"I'm going to Fiddler's Green by-and-by," said John, "to see if that
woman spoke true, and I must go to Carsham and ask if she was there
last night, and where she went to. I must find her if I can."
"And if you can't find her what will you do with the child?"
"I shall keep her, Miss Mary; what else should I do?"
"Oh, I don't know," said Mary, half carelessly. "Some folks would
send her to the workhouse."
"Mother and I ain't those folks, are we, Lily?" said John, looking up
with a smile, as both little hands grasped his hair. "Come now, tell
us what your name is."
Mary looked on at the pretty picture and listened, with a slight
smile, as the child whispered---"Lily."
"John's Lily, ain't you?" she said.
"Don's Lily."
"There--now the bell's stopped, and I shall be late."
Mary was gone, without even a glance at John's delighted face.
"Don's Lily," cried the silvery voice again, with a little peal of
laughter.