_IN DANGER_
"But if it were not so--if I could find
No love in all the world for comforting----"
--E. B. BROWNING.
Mary Alfrick went away to the Orphanage, and Markwood lived its life
without her. She was not very much missed by the neighbours, from
whom she had always held rather aloof. At first there was constant
grumbling at the farm, for only now that Mary was gone did her
relations really feel how much of the work had been done by her.
Life seemed harder than ever to Mrs. Alfrick; but Lizzie, a good and
willing child, did all she could to help her mother, and by degrees
the household settled down to a bearable sort of daily life, though
less tidy and less comfortable than in the old days when Mary was at
home.
The blank that she left at the blacksmith's cottage was less easily
filled up. No one could be Mary's substitute there. Mrs. Randal
never complained, but in truth the girl had been her right hand for
years. She could hardly remember the time, since Mary grew out of
childhood, when she had been without her constant affection and ready
help. Then it had always been a hope in the mother's heart that some
day Mary would be really her daughter; and she had even smiled a
little to herself over the extra quiet, steady ways of both, which
delayed the engagement, she fancied, longer than was necessary.
And now all was over. Mrs. Randal knew that Mary had her full share
of temper and pride, and she was not altogether very much surprised
that John had failed to make it up with her. She told herself that
after all a girl worthy of John did not exist. In her first sorrow
and disappointment, she could have said a few hard words of Mary; but
when something of this kind escaped her, John got up suddenly and
flung himself out of the room, after which she said no more.
From him, no one ever heard a word of reproach or complaint, and one
day, meeting his mother's eyes full of tears, he said rather
impatiently, "Don't you go worrying about me, mother. I ought to
have known. I deserve all I've got, and more."
"Well, I hope she knows what she's lost," sighed Mrs. Randal.
"Don't blame her," said John; and Lily just then running in from
school, neither of them said any more.
To both John and his mother, through that cold and sad winter, life
would have been dreary indeed without Lily. The child's intelligence
developed day by day. She grew taller and stronger, thus repaying
Mrs. Randal's tender care, and was always trying to save her trouble
in all sorts of pretty, thoughtful little ways. There was something
graceful, fairylike, almost brilliant, about the child sometimes,
which used to draw the attention and admiration of people passing
through the village. As the spring came on, a good many strange
faces were seen there, for at the end of February the line of railway
through that country was finished, and a station was opened four
miles off.
Under these circumstances, John watched over Lily more carefully than
ever. When it was time for her to come home from school, he might
often be seen standing at the forge door, all black from his work,
with the glowing furnace behind him, and perhaps one or two great
cart-horses waiting to be shod. Then presently the small figure in
the large pinafore would come flying along the road, sometimes with
other children, but more often alone, hurrying back, the first of
all, to help "mother" with tea. When she was safely near the gate,
John would give her a nod and a smile, while she threw him
half-a-dozen kisses, and would turn back contentedly to his work.
Lily was not allowed to go inside the forge now; it was found
disastrous to frocks and pinafores, and there was no Mary to wash
them out, as in the old happy days.
All this time, John had by no means forgotten Mr. Bland's hint about
Lily's parents. The taller and prettier she grew, the sweeter and
more thoughtful her ways, the oftener those words returned, and
weighed upon him. He knew that something ought to be done; but he
did not know what, and he put off the subject from day to day.
Sometimes it crossed his mind that the Vicar might tell him what to
do. Mr. Sands was a very quiet, good old man, who never interfered
unasked in the affairs of his people. He had often noticed Lily, but
had never said anything to John about the child. John was shy, and
the Vicar was shy; they liked and honoured each other, but had never
had a real conversation in their lives. John felt that if he went to
the Vicar on purpose, it would just be giving up Lily of his own free
will. It might be right--he hardly knew; he could not make up his
mind to do it.
One mild afternoon in February, when the sun was shining softly, and
the gardens were full of snowdrops, and the birds were chirping in
all their new joy of spring, John heard the voices of children in the
distance, and looked out as usual for Lily on her way home to tea. A
little group, running and dancing, soon approached him, but Lily was
neither in front nor in the midst of it. Neither could he see her
beyond; she had not yet reached the turn of the road: it was the
strangest thing for Lily to be last among the children.
"Where's Lily?" John called out to them as they came near.
"She's by the school; there's a man talking to her," was the answer.
"What man? A stranger?"
"Yes."
They all began to laugh when John set off running down the road. He
looked a very rough object in his working clothes, no hat on his
head, face and hands grimy. He was carrying an iron bar which he had
forgotten to throw down, and this gave him a fierce and threatening
appearance.
In the school door stood the schoolmistress, a delicate young woman,
looking anxious and pale. In the middle of the road a shabbily
dressed man was talking to Lily, who stood staring at him with a sort
of fascinated terror. When she heard John's running steps, she
started and sprang to meet him with a quick little cry; then,
clinging to his hand, burst into a passion of sobs and tears.
"What's all this about?" said John angrily. "Who are you, and what
have you been saying to the child, to frighten her like that?"
The man did not answer for a moment. He was a small, white-faced
man, with a light moustache and a look of attempted smartness. He
seemed to wish to be civil, though the appearance and manner of John
were certainly not encouraging.
"I didn't mean to frighten little Missy," he said. "I know a bit
more about her than you do, perhaps, and I was just asking her a
question or two, to see what she knows about herself."
"And what business is that of yours?" demanded John.
"Or of yours either, if you come to that. You ain't no relation, and
I suppose you don't pretend to be. If that little girl will come
along of me, I'll take her straight to her father."
"You'll do nothing of the sort," said John furiously.
"Who's to prevent me?"
"I'll prevent you."
"Who are you, I should like to know?"
The man turned a little whiter, and his voice was quite as angry as
John's, though not so loud. The schoolmistress came down from the
doorstep, and laid her hand on Lily's shoulder.
"Let her come in with me a minute, Mr. Randal," she said.
But Lily clung to her friend and would not let him go. He turned
quite gently to the mistress.
"It's all right, Miss. I know something about this gentleman, and
I'll soon send him off. Well, sir, my name's John Randal, if you
want to know, and this here little girl is under my care. Who her
parents may be, I know not. I know she was alone and friendless when
I found her, and I'm pretty sure you have no right to her, whatever
you may say. If you know who has, and if you'll please to tell me
their name and address, I shall see what's best to be done."
"I dare say you will," said the other man with a slight grin. "In
cases like this there's sometimes a reward offered, you know."
"Oh, a reward! I was wondering why you should mix yourself up in
it," said John. "It isn't the first try you've had after that
reward. Lily, isn't this the man as took you away from Carsham Fair?
I thought so. Well, sir, I know something about you, you see. And
I've seen you before."'
"That's not true, any way."
"You lost the child, or your missus did, somewhere down in this
country, and you've been trying to track her ever since. I'd have
known you again anywhere. I saw you in London at the station--you
two--dragging the poor baby between you. I come down in the train
with your missus and her, and saw no more of them till I found the
baby in the hedge between here and Carsham. D'ye think I'm going to
give her up to you again, feeling pretty sure as you never got hold
of her by fair means in the beginning?"
"What do you mean by that, young man?"
"I mean that you or your wife, or both of you, stole this here little
girl, on purpose to get the reward as was sure to be offered,"
answered John, with perfect coolness. "And now do you think you're
likely to get hold of her again in a hurry? I shall keep my eye on
you, and you'll be lucky if you escape the police."
"There's nothing can be proved against me. That there child was left
on a seat in the Park, and my wife found her."
"The police may guess whether that's true."
"Any way, it's no affair of yours. The child don't belong to you."
"I've heard say possession's nine points of the law," John answered.
"You may get your reward after all, if you like to go and inform this
child's parents how she's in charge of John Randal, blacksmith,
Markwood, and if you like to face the police and me. For there'll be
a clear understanding before you get that reward, I can tell you."
The other man stood silent for a minute; then he laughed spitefully.
"You're a nice nurse for a young lady," he said, "bullying and
swaggering all over the place with an iron bar in your hand, like as
if you was going to knock some one on the head. She's had a rough
time of it, I guess. Well, I won't say what I'll do, Mr. Randal.
One thing I can tell you for certain--you won't have that child long."
"And one thing I know--I shan't part with her to you," John retorted.
He turned round, still holding Lily by the hand, and walked off home.
The schoolmistress, who had again retreated to her doorway, watched
the strange man anxiously for a minute, while he stood in the middle
of the road, looking sulkily down and muttering between his teeth.
Presently he too strolled off in the opposite direction. John walked
along silently till Lily pulled at his hand.
"John, did you know it was Dick? Isn't he nasty and cross? I was
glad when I saw you coming."
"Never you speak to him again if you can help it," said John.
"But I could not help it then. I wasn't naughty. Oh, John, I wish I
might stop with you all day in the forge! It's such a nice safe
place. I don't want ever to go away."
"It's a dirty place for you, Lily," said the young man. "Well,
little one, maybe that fellow's right and I shan't have you long.
You've got a beautiful home somewhere, I expect. It's been just an
angel's visit to poor mother and me."
"I don't want a beautiful home," said the child. "Please, I want to
stay with you."
She repeated this once or twice as they went home together through
the village street, but John had not much to say. He looked very
grave, and swung the bar in his other hand in a manner that Dick
might justly have called threatening.
When they reached the cottage it was nearly tea-time. Lily ran in to
put her school things away and have her hair brushed, while John went
to wash and change his coat. The child began of course chattering to
Mrs. Randal about Dick and all he had said, and all John had said to
him. Mrs. Randal, with the teapot in her hand, looked anxiously
across at her son.
"It's all right, mother," he said with a slight smile. "No more o'
that, Lily. Mother don't want to hear about a fellow like that.
I'll talk to her afterwards."
They were not alone till the child had gone to bed, for John would
not let her go out to play as usual; he could not feel sure that Dick
might not still be lurking in the village. When she was gone, he
told his mother the whole story. She looked extremely grave.
"Well, my boy," she said, "we thought it must come some day, and so
did Mr. Bland. Yes, John, I've a feeling as the time's drawing near
for us to lose little Lily, and to be sure life will be dreary
without her--but we've done our duty by the child, and we must find
some comfort there."
"Cold enough comfort," said John, staring into the fire.