Read Ebook: John's Lily by Price Eleanor C Eleanor Catherine Groome William H C Illustrator

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Ebook has 816 lines and 47533 words, and 17 pages

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?"

"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.

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."

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.

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.

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