_THE CHURCHYARD STILE_
"By your truth she shall be true,
Ever true, as wives of yore;
And her yes, once said to you,
Shall be yes for evermore."
--E. B. BROWNING.
John went up through the wood to Fiddler's Green, a few low cottages
grouped about one of those wild and lonely commons that are fast
disappearing from the face of England. He found no one there who
could by any possibility be little Lily's grandmother, and heard
nothing of the woman who had left her in the road. Somebody told him
that an old woman who had died some time before, had once had a
good-for-nothing daughter who ran away. This was not much help. He
afterwards went to Carsham, where he had the disagreeable task of
inquiring at all the low public-houses whether a woman answering his
description had been there the evening before. At one of these, the
Dog and Duck, he did hear something of her. At least, he heard that
a poor tramping sort of woman had come in alone, wet through, had
dried herself at the fire, and sat there drinking till the storm was
over, when she went away. They could not say which way she went.
She seemed stupid, and they asked her no questions.
"Did she have too much?" said John.
"Nobody ever gets too much in this house, master," replied the
landlady with a grin. "It's as much as the licence is worth, you
know."
"Ah! I beg your pardon," said John, and he went out without saying
anything more.
At none of these houses did he mention the adventure of the child.
He would hardly himself have been so cautious, but his mother had
warned him.
"If it's her own," she said, "you may be sure she'll be raising the
country to find it. If it isn't, she'll be afraid to show up at all.
So keep a quiet tongue in your head, John, and don't give the little
girl away till you're sure some one has a right to her."
John took this advice as far as he could. He was not tempted to talk
much at Carsham, for he was not a popular character there. He had a
good deal of influence among the young men of his village, and he
used this influence to keep them out of the Carsham public houses.
Among the less respectable of these houses, therefore, there was a
good deal of spite against John. People paid him the high compliment
of calling him a "saint," which to their minds was the worst thing
that could be said of a young man. They also called him a hypocrite
and a molly. It may easily be believed that if John ever heard of
these remarks, they troubled him less than the flies that buzzed
round his head as he walked in the garden. He knew, honest fellow,
that he was neither a saint nor a hypocrite. As to being a "molly,"
whatever that might mean, it was an odd description of the strongest
and bravest young man in Markwood and all the country round. But
some people think, or pretend to think, that there is no manliness
without wickedness, and of course, to such minds as these, men like
John give no satisfaction whatever.
Days, weeks, months rolled by, and neither at Carsham nor Markwood
was any inquiry made about the little lost child. The gossips talked
a good deal at first, but soon--a nine days' wonder--the interest of
the story died away, and it seemed as if Lily had always lived in the
quiet village, in the blacksmith's low-roofed cottage, in the flowery
garden which soon became as much hers as John's. She was backward in
talking, but Mrs. Randal was soon called "mother," and John was her
big brother, while she was herself known all over the village as
"John's Lily."
Like a fairy she went flitting everywhere, warmly dressed by Mrs.
Randal, for the child was delicate, and no wonder, after the exposure
she had gone through--her silken curls shining, a little queen at
once among the other children, who followed her with slow admiration
in everything she said and did. As John unconsciously was a refining
influence among the men of the village, and his gentle mother among
the women, so was Lily among the children. She caught none of their
rough ways; bad words died away into silence, somehow, before they
came near Lily, as white as the flower whose name she shared;
quarrels were checked by the sight of her smiling face. She was the
little peacemaker in the village. John could not for some time make
up his mind to send her to school; he had an idea of keeping this
fairy treasure "unspotted from the world;" and the children, though
not a bad set on the whole, had of course all the faults and the ups
and downs of other children. But his mother looked at it from a
calmer and more sensible point of view.
"Don't you see, my lad," she said, "it would be different if you
could afford to bring her up like a little lady. As things be, if
nothing turns up, she'll have to live like you and me, and like the
other children. We can't bring her up without education, which
neither you nor me is clever enough to give, and the other children
won't hurt her, John. She'll do good to them, and they'll do no harm
to her. I see that with the little Alfricks, and Polly says so too."
Mrs. Randal did not add that she and Mary had talked the subject over
more fully still, for they were both quite aware that Lily, being
after all a human child and not an angel, had faults of her own which
John's blind love would never see. She was self-willed, with all her
sweetness; she was in a fair way of being spoilt by his indulgence;
she did not at all dislike being petted and admired. She had her
little fancies, too, and they were not always reasonable. Reigning
from the first like a princess among the Alfrick children, she never
seemed to care much for Mary, never came to her willingly, struggled
down from her arms, turned her face away, though not rudely, when she
asked for a kiss. She was quick enough to feel that Mary was not
quite her devoted slave. John would always do what she wanted; he
would give up his own way for hers a dozen times a day; she could
make him laugh with a look, the touch of her little finger led and
ruled him. But Mary, though never unkind, could be a little rough
and cross sometimes; it was not so easy to make her play and smile
and forget everything for Lily. She had even pushed her away once or
twice, when heavier worries than usual, poor girl, were weighing on
her mind. Lily looked at her in astonishment; she did not complain,
but ran away to the forge door to peep at John through a crevice.
"Don't love Mary," she said, the next time that he and she were
walking hand in hand round the garden.
John looked down, startled. "Why, little one! Poor Mary! Why d'ye
say that, Lily?"
No explanation was to be had, however; the child shook her curls, and
in a moment was chattering about something else, though John still
stared thoughtfully. Her words vexed him rather seriously, for he
had lately, in his quiet way, been thinking just the opposite.
Lily had now been a year at Markwood. A few days after this little
speech of hers had set John thinking--troublesome thoughts which
worked round and round in a circle, so that he could find no likely
way out--on a still and lovely evening of late summer, he was coming
home from a distant job of work, along the lane that led to the high
road in the other direction from Carsham. This was the quietest end
of the village. On one side were trees that hid the Vicarage, where
the old Vicar lived alone. On the other side was the churchyard; the
low, small, but beautiful old church, with its round arches and
narrow windows; the old crumbling tombstones; the rows of green
graves without name or date, where silent generations of Markwood
lay; the great yew-trees, old too, but strong and green, that
shadowed half the grass where two or three children, Lily one of
them, were quietly picking daisies in the evening light. At this
corner the churchyard was entered by a stile, the gate being further
on, and on the stile, partly in the shade of the yews, sat Mary
Alfrick watching the children.
John came up so quietly on the grass behind her, that she started
when his low steady voice said, "Well, and what are you doing here?"
She was obliged to turn round and look at him, and as she did so she
laughed, but it was a poor kind of laugh, and there was plenty of
light for John to see that she had just been crying.
"What is it, Mary?" he said gravely, and he laid his hand over hers
on the top rail of the stile.
"It's nothing, thank you."
John knew very well that Mary's troubles, though always bravely
borne, were never far to seek. He had often agreed with his mother
in wondering how a girl like Mary could put up with such a home as
hers, with her father's roughness and ill-temper, her stepmother's
selfish meanness, with nothing except the sense of duty to brighten
life and make it something better than a dull, hard round of daily
tasks. Mrs. Randal knew more about Mary than her son did, though
hardly from what the girl herself had told her, for she was a proud
girl, and never spoke of her own feelings. But Mrs. Randal in her
gentleness had a way of reading people's thoughts sometimes, and as
she sat in her chimney corner, she had made plans of her own in which
both John's future and Mary Alfrick's were very deeply concerned.
She had said nothing to either of them. So far as she knew, John had
at present no thought of marrying; but she had long decided that if
he was ever to bring home a wife, Mary Alfrick must be the girl.
"Look up, then, Mary," said John, and the tenderness in his voice
crimsoned the girl's cheek, and made her tears overflow again.
"Come, we're old friends, ain't we? What is it, my dear?" he said.
Mary shook her head. In spite of her tears, a smile trembled about
her mouth. "It's nothing," she murmured again.
They were both silent for a few minutes. The sun, slowly going down,
threw the yew-tree shadows longer and darker across the churchyard
grass. Beyond in the warm sunshine the children were playing
quietly; sweet little voices ringing now and then among the graves.
Lily, very busy with her daisies, had not seen John coming, or
certainly, by this time, her arms would have been round his neck.
She did not see him now as he stood on the other side of the stile,
close under the shade of the great yew, though a shaft of golden
light was shining on his face as he looked up at Mary.
"Look here," he said presently; "listen to me a bit. I want to tell
you something. Mind you, Mary, I know you're a thousand times too
good for me."
Mary shook her head again, and the smile deepened. John's grave
face, as he watched her, brightened too into a smile.
"But you are, you know," he said. "Mr. Alfrick would look higher for
you than a village blacksmith. I've known that a long time, and now
and again it's made me wish I'd gone to London long ago and got into
some higher branch, such as my uncle's talked about, and Mr. Bland
too. There's ironworkers earning pounds and pounds a week with some
of the big firms, and it's work as I could do. But mother wouldn't
have liked to leave the old house and shop, and it always seemed to
me I hadn't much but her to think on--'cept when I've thought on you,
Mary."
Mary paused a minute; then she answered him as quietly as he spoke.
"It's not me as would ever wish you to leave Markwood, John. I never
did think much of London. If you have a nice home in the country,
stop there--that's my idea. Never you think of London to please me."
"What shall I do to please you, Mary?"
"Stop as you are."
"Well, that's easy done," said the young man, not without a shade of
disappointment in his tone.
There was another silence. Mary did not seem to care to speak; but
her tears were all gone, and she looked happy and at peace. John, on
the contrary, seemed a little troubled. He felt himself so bound by
circumstances that he could not, in fairness to Mary and to other
people, tell her all that was in his heart just then. Yet, when he
found her crying, it had been impossible not to say something. And
now he could hardly leave her without saying more.
"Listen to me a bit," he said again. "There ain't the girl in
England to match you, Mary; and if I haven't told you so sooner, it
ain't that I haven't thought so, you know. I've thought a lot more
about you than you've any notion of; and look here, I did feel as if
you hadn't no right to be crying just now, and me not to know what it
were all about."
He paused, as if waiting for an answer.
"Never mind that now--I was only silly," said the girl.
"I tell you, you're a sight too good for me," John went on. "You've
a right to look higher than me; but if I thought you liked me a bit,
I'd ask you something in spite of it all."
Mary said nothing, though he seemed to expect her to speak. It was
impossible to break in with words upon the happiest moment her life
had known till then; how happy, she did not understand till
afterwards, as people may measure the height of a cliff from the
sands at its foot.
"Mary dear, do you like me a bit?" said John.
The girl still hesitated; then she spoke, almost impatiently: "Of
course I do, John."
Some grey pigeons, the Vicar's pigeons, fluttered down from the
church tower; the children left their daisy-chains to watch them,
clapping their hands as the wings flapped across the churchyard. The
minutes passed on, the shadows grew longer. Those two by the stile
told each other--John rather to his own surprise, but he felt it was
true--that there never had been a time in their lives, from childhood
till now, when they had not cared more for each other than for
anybody else in the world. And the evening light brightened--the
church, with its flint walls, might have been built of gold--the
grass lay dazzling green beyond the shadows that stretched across the
graves. But it was not all joy. Perfect happiness was still a thing
that must be waited for, that shone in the distance.
"It ain't fair, after all," John said sadly. "I didn't ought to have
spoke to you like this, 'cause it'll be a long while yet afore I can
think of getting married, you know."
"That don't matter: we must wait," said Mary. And indeed it was
quite enough for her to know that she had John's love.
The doubt of that, the fear of the future, had weighed on her mind
for many a day; now she felt that she could bear anything. Now that
they understood each other, nothing else in the world mattered much.
"I must save enough to keep my mother," John went on. "And now
there's the child, too; we can't bring her up to work, you know--a
child like her. Tell you what, when the time comes, we'll leave
mother and her in the old house, and we'll take one of Pratt's
cottages for you and me--shan't we, Mary? And my word, I'll work
hard; but I shan't get enough in a year, nor in two years. Suppose
now it was five, or seven. How long will you wait for me; tell us
now?"
"Five, seven, fourteen, twenty-one," said Mary slowly, smiling all
the time. "Well, I don't know where to fix it. All my life, I
suppose."
"God bless you, dear," said John.
And now the children were tired of their play, and they came
lingering across to the corner where Mary was waiting for them. It
was strange, and perhaps they felt this by instinct, that she should
have waited so long and so patiently. When they were not very far
off, Lily, who was dancing along as usual, singing a little song to
herself, suddenly looked up and saw John by Mary's side, leaning over
the stile. She gave a scream of joy, and came flying towards him.
In a moment she was in his arms, perched on his shoulder. Mary went
to meet the others, and caught up the youngest and fattest of her
tribe, a sturdy boy of three. Then this company started off along
the village, the two elders very quiet and very happy, the children
singing and shouting round them.
"I'll be up later, Mary; it's Lily's bed-time," said John, as he
stopped at his gate.
Mary nodded, smiled, and went on with her flock up the lane, quite
sure that she was the happiest girl in Markwood, if not in the world.
But when Mr. and Mrs. Alfrick heard that she had promised to marry
John Randal they were furious in their different ways, and being
neither of them accustomed to restrain their tongues, Mary had a much
worse time of it than ever. Nothing her father could say was bad
enough for John; all the public-house abuse was showered on his name,
and he was further called a low, sneaking cur, not fit to speak to
Farmer Alfrick's daughter. John had certainly been right in thinking
that the farmer would look higher for Mary. But in truth, at the
bottom of it, Alfrick had far too valuable help from his daughter to
think with patience of her marrying anybody. And this side of the
question keenly touched Mrs. Alfrick, who could not even try to think
what she should do without Mary. So she was an ungrateful girl, and
also a born silly, to give up a good home for the sake of a prig of a
fellow like that Randal, good for nothing but to pick up foundling
babies and carry them to his mother.
"And you're a heartless girl to so much as think of leaving me and
them poor children, and if a judgment don't come on you I shall be
surprised--so there, miss!" said Mary's stepmother.
But after all Mary had been prepared for these remarks by the
well-known character of those who made them. She had never expected
her home people to be pleased, and as for being congratulated and
fussed over because of her engagement, that had never even occurred
to her as possible. She was a plain-spoken, fearless girl too, with
a rough tongue of her own when she chose to use it, and one must
confess that her stepmother's remarks were neither received nor
answered patiently.
With her father Mary took refuge in the proud reserved silence which
was also natural to her. She felt and knew that she had done her
duty by him and his children, and she knew too that with all his
violence he was quite aware of that. Neither he nor the whole world,
she was convinced, would ever come between her and John, now that
they once understood each other. There was no hurry: she had told
them John could not marry yet, though she had said nothing about the
length to which that waiting might possibly be stretched. For
herself, on this point, she felt a power of patience that seemed
likely to last for years. A traveller does not much mind his miles
of dusty road, if at the far end, shining in the sun, he can see the
gates and towers of the city where he is going. So the rough words
of her home fell lightly on Mary, for she had just then a world of
content in her heart and no fear for the future. Nothing really
mattered as long as she and John kept their promise to each other,
and had the happiness of meeting every day.
As for John's mother, when he told her what he had done, her pleasure
and surprise were almost equal. Men like John do not always choose
women as good as themselves, and Mrs. Randal had had her anxieties,
feeling that no other girl in the village was worthy of her son. But
with "Polly" there was no doubt; there could be nothing but
thankfulness. Besides being the steadiest girl for miles round, she
had all her wits about her; she knew how to keep house, and how to
make a little money go a long way. And John, like most men of his
simple and generous character, could never get on without a clever
woman to manage his affairs and keep his home comfortable.
Mrs. Randal's only doubt was caused by the long waiting. That did
not seem to her quite fair to Mary, or quite wise for her son. If it
had been only the one question of John's working and saving for her,
she never would have consented to it; she would have been sure to get
on somehow; they could have managed to live all together in the old
house, she thought, for she and Polly would never quarrel. Watching
John, she saw his eyes thoughtfully following the little fairy child
that played about the room. There, she saw, was the difficulty. He
loved that child. He would never give her up, never let her go out
into the cold world to look for another shelter; never--unless she
was taken from him by those who had a better right to her. And so,
with her as his first object, he naturally feared to take on himself
at present any further cares, any deeper responsibility. Mrs. Randal
saw it all; she looked at Lily climbing on John's knees, at the smile
that brightened his face as he stooped towards her, and she said to
herself, "Well, I don't say but what we've took in a little angel
unawares. Still--what with Polly and a plain, happy sort of life, I
doubt as my boy mightn't have done better; but there, bless her
pretty face, poor lamb, one would think I grudged her the only home
she's got! He's done right, and the LORD will provide."