John's Lily

CHAPTER IX

PARTED

"And trust me not at all or all in all."—TENNYSON.

John had never walked so fast in his life. Almost before Mr. Bland had politely lifted off the kettle and filled the teapot under Mrs. Randal's directions, he was half-way up the narrow muddy lane that led to Alfrick's farm. There he found Mrs. Alfrick, with a worried countenance and every sign of a recent fit of crying, leaning over the garden gate.

"Well! So you've got the child back! Where did Mr. Bland pick her up, I wonder?" she began at once. "And I hope you don't bear no more malice, John!"

"How did you know?" said John gruffly; but he went on without waiting for her answer. "Look here, don't talk about me bearing malice, Mrs. Alfrick, but just tell me the truth about this affair, for I mean to know it. You ain't going to deny that you took Lily to the fair—and Mary—she had no more to do with it than my mother herself."

"If you know so much, what's the good of asking?" said Mrs. Alfrick, with a slightly hysterical laugh. "Well, you'd have been made of stone yourself, John Randal, if you'd resisted that child's face when she said she wanted to go. Yes, it was me as took her, and thinking no harm, you may be sure, in giving her a bit of amusement like my own children. But if I'd known all this row and fuss was to come of it, I'd have locked Miss Lily in the house sooner than take her with me. Why, there was my Lizzie, she nearly got lost too—and Polly—nothing would satisfy her but racing after us to fetch that precious child back—and so naturally you took it into your stupid head it was her that lost her, while all the time it was nobody's fault but the child's own. If she'd kept by me, she'd have been safe enough. I'll never be bothered with her again, that's positive. What did become of her, after all?"

"That doesn't matter," said John. "Some people stole her and took her off to Moreton, and Mr. Bland found her at the station."

"Well, that was queer." Mrs. Alfrick would have asked a great many more questions, but another subject was occupying her mind, as well as John's. Standing outside the gate, he was looking up over the low garden wall at the front of the house, his eyes wandering wistfully from window to window. If only Mary would look out at one of them!

The woman at the gate, though foolish, selfish, spiteful and small-minded, was not altogether bad and barbarous. She was now really sorry for the misunderstanding between John Randal and her stepdaughter, and not altogether because its consequences seemed likely to fall upon herself, and had already brought her a scolding from her husband. There is a corner of romance, of sympathy with true love, in most women's hearts, and Mrs. Alfrick's heart was not without it. She had always abused John, but she could not help respecting him; she had always complained of Mary, but she valued her none the less for that.

"Polly ain't in," she said, "so it's no use you looking for her. She went down to the Vicarage half-an-hour ago."

"To the Vicarage! What has she gone there for?"

"Mrs. Elwood's staying there, you know. Years ago she told Polly if ever she wanted to go out to service she was to let her know."

John flushed angrily. "She's not going to service," he said.

"She says she is. Her father's angry, of course; him and me, we neither of us can spare her very well. It's worse than the thought of her getting married, 'cause no one knew how long you and her would be about that. But I wonder at you looking so surprised, John. Didn't you understand as it was all over between you and Polly? She told us so, and she said she couldn't abide to stop in this village to be pointed at by all the boys and girls, and so she was going down straight to the Vicarage, and she'd get the Vicar to write to his sister by this very post if she was gone—but the children saw her yesterday, so I expect she's found her there still."

John stood like a stone. The colour faded from his brown face and left it very pale. There was certainly a little gratified malice in Mrs. Alfrick's eyes as she watched him, mingled as it might be with pity and regret.

"Anyone might make a mistake," said John. "And she needn't have taken it up like that altogether."

He turned round and walked away, without a word of thanks or farewell.

"He is a lout, that John Randal," reflected Mrs. Alfrick as she leaned on the gate and looked after him. "I'm not going to waste sorrow on Polly, for I do think she's got the best of it. She won't be tied down for life to this deadly dull place, nor married to the grumpiest fellow in it, barring her father. My word, girls needn't be in a hurry to get married; they little know all they're giving up. Same time, I hope John'll bring her round, for she'd be a serious loss to us all, Polly would, and to me in particular."

John walked as far as the Vicarage gate without meeting Mary, and then, for half-an-hour or more, he walked restlessly up and down under the churchyard wall. One or two people passed and stared at the industrious young blacksmith idling there; but after all, it was the second day of Carsham Fair, and the country had not yet settled down again to work. They asked him no questions, for John was not in the habit of giving an account to his neighbours of what he chose to do.

He was standing at last half hidden above the gate, in the shadow of the Vicar's trees, when he heard a step in the drive, then the quick opening and shutting of the gate, and Mary came out into the road. She did not look in his direction, but walked off quickly towards the village. In a moment John had overtaken her.

"Will you please to stop; I want to speak to you," he said, in a voice half choked with excitement.

Mary stood still. She lifted her eyes for a moment, then let them fall, but John could see that they were tired and swollen with crying, and that her face, generally so happy and healthy with all its quietness, looked pale and worn, as if she had gone through some great grief. There was no softening in that glance at John, and no change of colour. It was sorrowful, but it was also hard; it checked the young man's impulse to draw her close to him and make up their quarrel on the spot.

"What's this I hear about service, Polly?" he said, with a timidity quite strange to his character.

"Oh! that don't signify to any one but myself," the girl answered coldly. "I thought you had got some news about Lily, perhaps."

"So I have. She's found:" and John hurriedly poured out the story. He was so puzzled by Mary's manner to himself that it was almost a relief to stand there and talk on some other subject.

"Well! I'm glad to hear it," said Mary, when he paused, and she began to walk on.

"What are you in such a hurry about?" murmured John, his shyness returning.

"What's the use of standing here?" Mary retorted.

"Look here," said John desperately, "come with me a bit the other way. I want to know the meaning of all this, please."

"All what?" said the girl; but she made no objection to turning round with him and walking the other way. He did not speak for a few yards, walking beside her with his head bent and his hands in his pockets. He stopped at the corner stile of the churchyard, went up and leaned upon it. Once more the grass looked brightly green, a yellow light was shining from the west; but there were no children's voices to break the stillness now, and the shadow of the great yews was gloomy.

"Mary," John said, "it was in this place you promised to marry me. You was sitting on this stile—perhaps you don't remember?"

"Yours is a long memory, and mine a short one," Mary answered, after a minute of silence, while a little shivering wind rustled the upper branches of the yews. "It seems you have forgotten what happened yesterday."

"No, I've not forgotten. Nothing of the kind."

"You've found the child," Mary went on relentlessly, "and now you begin to see you were a bit hard on me. She's told you, I suppose, that however she got to the fair, it was no doing of mine."

"But why on earth didn't you tell me so yesterday?" cried John. He seized both her hands, but she drew them away from him instantly.

"None of that, if you please. You forget we've done with each other. And you forget how I tried to tell you and you wouldn't listen to a word. No, you'd never trust me again. No, you were sorry you ever did trust me. No, I'd deceived you and broke your heart."

"Mary, you're breaking it now," he said. "I was mad just then; I didn't know what I was saying. There, can't you forgive me? Let bygones be bygones. I'll never be happy without you."

"Oh yes, you will," Mary said. She stopped a moment and then went on hurriedly—"I never minded what my stepmother said, because I knew it was half of it spite, but many's the time she's mocked at me and said you thought ever so much more of that child than of me. I never believed it, I never troubled about such nonsense, not till yesterday."

"And you believed it then, did you?" said John, half to himself.

"Many's the time," Mary went on, "as I've stood up for you in the village, when people said you were just silly over that child and spoilt her down to the ground. I told them it was only natural you should think a lot of the little thing, when you'd saved her life, one may say, and she had no friends in the world but you and Mrs. Randal. Of course you couldn't help making a fuss of her—and you know as well as anybody that I've tried to help you with her, and behaved to her as kind as I could. I'm not saying this to praise myself, but just to put you in mind. It wasn't likely I should expect that losing Lily would take away your trust in me. Love and trust goes together, to my mind, John. You'd ought to have known for certain, whatever people said, as I had nothing to do with Lily's going to the fair. You ought as soon to have doubted yourself as me. But it seemed as if the losing of the child took away your senses; you had no thought nor understanding left for me. No love and no trust neither—and if you think I'm the girl to marry without them, and knowing all the time as something may come between us any day—that poor child or anything else as takes your fancy—why, you're mistaken, that's all. You say you were mad yesterday. I was in my right senses, and when I said it should be the last time, I meant it. So now you know."

Mary made this long speech in a low monotonous voice, without a break in it or any sign of feeling. Her face was white, and once her eyes swam with tears, but John's own were hidden on his arm against the stile, and he saw nothing.

He said nothing either. To have lost Mary, the one love of his life, his idea of all that was good and noble and sweet in a woman, whose promise had given such brightness to his future—it was a trouble indeed, like nothing he had ever known. If Mary only knew it, nothing in the whole world, not even the helpless little lost child, who had wound herself round his heart by the fact of her helplessness, was half such a treasure as she. He felt as if half his life was torn away—and all through his own fault. He realised that clearly enough, and could not defend himself, being truthful and modest by nature, against the things that Mary had said. But he did think in his heart, as he leaned there on the stile, that Mary ought to understand and forgive him. He would have forgiven her, he thought, if she had lost her temper, and had been unjust to him. The truth was, that her extreme pride, and the coldness which belonged to it, stood in the way of their happiness quite as much as his own anger and thoughtless injustice had done.

He said nothing, being at no time so quick of thought and speech as Mary, and presently he heard her speaking again. She was very quiet, and full of good sense; she reproached him no more. She told him, in a voice that sounded hard and unfeeling to the poor fellow's ears, that the Vicar and his sister, Mrs. Elwood, had been very kind; she had talked things over with them; they quite understood her wish to be away from Markwood, and Mrs. Elwood knew of a situation under the matron of a large orphanage, to take charge of clothes and linen, which seemed to be just the kind of thing she was fit for.

"She's going to write about it to-day," said Mary.

John stood upright suddenly; he was a little angry with her now.

"All right. I wish you well, I'm sure," he said. "You'll be wanting to get home—don't let me hinder you, please. I'm going the other way."

Mary's eyes widened with astonishment, and her pale cheeks flushed suddenly.

"Very well. Good evening," she said. "I'm sorry I've detained you so long;" and without even another look or shaking hands they parted.

Mary walked back through the village with her head very high.

It was an hour later before John got home. Mr. Bland was gone; his mother had put Lily to bed, and was sitting by the fire, watching her kettle and waiting for him. She looked sadly at his face and asked no questions. But presently she said, "John, dear, do you know what Mr. Bland says? He says you ought to try all you can to find Lily's parents."

John made no answer at all, but stared gloomily into the fire. In his heart he wished Mr. Bland would mind his own business, for why should he lose everything? Dark, selfish, miserable thoughts, like flocks of evil birds, seemed to hover over him and shut out heaven.

CHAPTER X

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.

CHAPTER XI

THE STRANGER

"I looked, and to myself I said,
        'The letter L.'"
                                                            —JEAN INGELOW.

But days and weeks and months went by, and in spite of Mrs. Randal's presentiment, no one came to claim Lily; it seemed that her parents, if she really had any, were no nearer finding their lost child than when she disappeared four years before. John had somehow expected that Lily's father and mother would be among the first passengers from London by the train that now stopped only four miles off: to Markwood people, in their remoteness, this seemed like a station at their very doors. And in truth, when the long-delayed discovery came at last, the railway had something to do with it.

But all the same it was a strange chance—only there is no such thing as chance—which made that midsummer Sunday morning so beautiful that Sir Henry Smith asked his friend Colonel Maxwell if he was up to a walk of three miles or so, and would like to go with him to a little out-of-the-way village called Markwood, where there was a very pretty old church and a nice old vicar who used to be his tutor, but whom he had not seen for years.

This was what the railway had done. It had brought the owner of Carsham Park back to his old home, with the intention of living there part of the year, at least. Sir Henry Smith was a restless man, fond of travelling, fond of art and of his fellow-creatures. He had found the old house, so far from a station, too dull and too inconvenient for him, and for some years he had spent most of his time abroad. During that time he had made friends with Colonel Maxwell, who was also travelling about, trying in all sorts of new scenes to find consolation for certain great troubles which had fallen upon him.

The two friends walked a long way through Sir Henry's park, then turned into a narrow, shady lane which brought them out at last at the far end of the village of Markwood. Both were struck with the quiet beauty of this depth of peaceful England. On that June morning, the beech-woods had hardly lost their young brilliancy of green; old thorn-trees here and there filled the air with the scent of their fading bloom; a great arch of soft, warm, calm blue sky lay over the valley, reflected in the ripples of the river. The Markwood bells were chiming sweetly, but they had stopped by the time that Sir Henry and Colonel Maxwell reached the churchyard gate, where the dark yew shadows lay on green rows of graves. Out through the low church porch, where the door stood open, came a murmured sound of prayer.

"This is a peaceful corner indeed," said Colonel Maxwell to his friend, as they lingered a moment at the gate. "One could end one's days happily enough here."

"Yes, it is pretty. My wife used to say it was like a place in a story-book."

"There is something quite charming about it, to my mind," said Colonel Maxwell.

They went quietly into the church, and sat down on a bench near the door. A few heads were turned, but Sir Henry Smith was almost a stranger among the people here, and his friend was quite unknown. The Vicar recognised his old pupil, and his voice shook a little nervously as he read the first lesson; but neither the reading nor the music in Markwood Church had need of any excuse or shyness; both were as good as they could be. And there was a tall, dark young man in the choir who sang out bravely in the morning Psalms, "I was glad when they said unto me: We will go into the house of the Lord."

Colonel Maxwell looked as if nothing in the world could ever make him glad any more. He was a fair, pale, worn-looking man, with melancholy blue eyes; it seemed—as indeed was the truth—as if sorrow and trouble lay like a heavy burden on his shoulders; he stooped slightly, in spite of being a soldier, and looked years older than he was. When the service was over and the congregation was going out, Sir Henry Smith asked him to wait a minute, while he went into the vestry to speak to Mr. Sands. Colonel Maxwell stayed in his place by the door: he sat leaning forward, shading his eyes with his hand, letting the people pass without much notice, though some of them looked curiously at him. A small group of children came among the last, their feet tripping lightly over the old uneven pavement; and last of these came a little girl of about seven years old. She was a fair, delicate-looking child, slenderly made and with small features; her large blue eyes had a grave puzzled expression. She was dressed in a plain white frock and had a small locket tied round her neck; a round hat with a blue ribbon was set on a head of thickly curling hair. The curls were like pale gold silk, soft and fine, clustering in shining rings about the child's neck and behind her ears. She followed the other children to the door, where one of them turned round and spoke to her. She shook her head violently, while the grave little face lighted up with a happy smile.

"No!" she said in a loud whisper. "I'll wait for John."

Then she stood still in the porch, just where a ray of sunshine fell across the rough wall, nodding and smiling to the others as they hurried on their way; then she turned round and looked into the church with a quick little air of impatience, and met the eyes of the stranger, fixed upon her so intently that she might have been frightened, but for their gentleness.

She was not frightened. On the contrary, she seemed to be a little attracted, for she mounted the doorstep, which brought her a few inches nearer, and gazed at him, in the dim half-light of the church, as earnestly as he gazed at her. The puzzled look seemed to deepen in her eyes. Her curiosity was roused to the utmost. Who could this be, who sat so still, looking so kind and so very unhappy—so strangely surprised, too, at the sight of a little girl? And as for Colonel Maxwell, he passed his hand once or twice over his eyes, as if he doubted his own sight, and looked again at the child, and said to himself, "Come, this is simply a delusion. It has her look, somehow—it is what she might have been by this time—but how could it be possible! I must get over these dreams and fancies. It is not the first time I have fancied a likeness—and yet certainly—what has the child got round her neck? I wish she would come a little nearer!"

But those quiet moments were over; the singing men and boys were coming out now, and among them came a tall young man whose stern face brightened at the sight of the child; she, with a little jump, caught hold of his hand, and they walked off instantly together.

The child looked back once; and before they reached the gate she said to her companion, "Did you see the poor man in church, John?"

"What poor man, Lily?"

"Sitting just by the door—didn't you see him? He had such a thin face, and big eyes something like mine, and he looked at me as if he wanted something so bad. If you hadn't come just then, I think he'd have spoke to me."

"Would he? Well, we don't want strange poor men, Lily," said John, as he tramped along the road.

"He wasn't like that nasty Dick. He was a gentleman."

"I didn't see him," said John, now looking round a little nervously. "Oh, I know who you mean—the gentleman as come in with Sir Henry. He's some stranger. He wondered what you was waiting about for, that's all."

"He's got a kind face, poor man!" said Lily.

As soon as the child and her companion had disappeared, Colonel Maxwell got up and went to the vestry. Sir Henry Smith was standing there, talking to the old Vicar, and both looked round in surprise when Colonel Maxwell knocked at the door and came in.

"This is my friend Colonel Maxwell, Mr. Sands," said Sir Henry. "My dear fellow, what is it? You look as if you had seen a ghost."

"I have seen a vision," said his friend in a low voice. "I have seen my little girl."

The two friends were looking at each other, or they would have noticed the sudden light of surprise and intelligence which sprang into the old clergyman's face.

"It must have been fancy, Maxwell," said Sir Henry slowly. "I thought you had given up all hope—and she couldn't be here, you know."

"Why not?"

"Why—so near London!"

"It would be strange—and unexpected—but that is what happens," said Colonel Maxwell. "At any rate, if Mr. Sands will kindly tell me—but I must first explain to you that four years ago I had a very terrible misfortune. My youngest child, a little girl of three, disappeared from the garden of a square near our house—the nursemaid left her for a moment—the thing is often done, no doubt, and the consequence is not always fatal. No human means have availed to trace the child. I offered a reward of a thousand pounds. The police have done their best, I believe; and they have now come to the conclusion that she can be no longer living. They are quite sure she was stolen; and they think it would have been the interest of the thieves to restore her with some plausible story; or they could have kept in the dark and demanded what they pleased. Of course that is plain. She cannot be living—unless by some miracle she is no longer in the hands of the thieves."

Sir Henry Smith shook his head and smiled, but very hopelessly.

Mr. Sands was listening with grave and eager interest.

"And do I understand that you think——" he began.

"I only want to know this," said Colonel Maxwell, his voice trembling with impatience. "As I waited by the church door just now, I saw a little girl with fair hair, the age that my child would have been. She was dressed in white. There was something about her that made me feel almost sure—in fact, I am sure. Who is that child?"

"Did she go away with one of my choir-men—a tall, dark fellow?"

"Exactly—she did."

"It was a little girl they call Lily——"

"Lily! Her name!"

"Yes, my dear sir. One moment, and you shall know all. The young man with whom you saw her is John Randal the blacksmith—a good fellow, the best fellow in the village."

"One of the old Randals? Of course I know all about them. The best blacksmiths in the county," said Sir Henry.

"One evening, four years ago, between this place and Carsham—opposite your house, Sir Henry—John Randal found that child by the roadside. He and his mother have brought her up since then, and no child could have been taken better care of."

"By the roadside!—between here and Carsham!" repeated Colonel Maxwell breathlessly.

"I do not remember the story very clearly," said the Vicar. "But I believe John had seen her the day before with a woman who spoke of her as her own child. I know he took some trouble to find that woman, but without success. However, all this does not matter now. The first thing is to decide whether little Lily is really your child. Let us go at once to Randal's cottage."

Colonel Maxwell asked no more questions then. It seemed as if he did not wish to hear more till he had seen the child again. Down the churchyard path and along the shady road into the village he walked a little in advance of the others, his head bent, deep in thought, hearing nothing of what they said, and looking neither to right nor left. In the meanwhile Sir Henry Smith was talking gravely to the Vicar.

"I am very much afraid," he said, "that poor Maxwell will find himself mistaken. It seems almost impossible that he should really recognise the child—hardly more than an infant when she was stolen. It is true the date corresponds—but is it likely that the police would not have tracked her here, within thirty miles of London! No, I strongly suspect she belonged to the woman with whom you say she was first seen. It will not be his first disappointment, poor fellow! He has been off on a wrong scent several times already."

"Is his wife living?"

"No. I believe she died soon after this child was born. I have only known him three years; we made acquaintance at Naples. As nice a fellow as ever lived. I am uncommonly sorry for him."

They went on talking. The Vicar gave one or two reasons for thinking that little Lily was really the missing child, but Sir Henry did not seem any more inclined to agree with him. He was one of those matter-of-fact people who never believe in anything that seems unlikely, and such a string of strange coincidences was quite beyond his limit.

John's cottage and yard and garden were in the trimmest order; the yellow roses on the wall, which lasted all the summer, were already out; so were the red roses beyond, and the clusters of white pinks; but more beautiful than all were the lilies in their stately row. The cottage door was open, but Lily herself was not to be seen or heard. She had run away into the garden to gather a few of the first strawberries, having had a large pinafore tied over her clean white frock, and many injunctions to be careful. John, rather silent and thoughtful, was sitting in the large armchair, while his mother was laying the cloth for dinner.

"What are you thinking about, John, my lad?" said Mrs. Randal.

"Don't know, mother. Sir Henry Smith was at church this morning, and another gentleman with him, a stranger."

"Ah! Well, I'm glad the family's come back to Carsham. I don't hold with people having a beautiful place like that, and leaving it to stand empty. It's a bad thing for the country, and for themselves too, careering in foreign lands and spending a lot of money as had better be spent at home. Dear me! who's this?"

Mrs. Randal heard the click of the gate, and looked up to see three gentlemen turning into the little yard.

"John," she said, "here's Mr. Sands—and Sir Henry himself, I do believe."

And the stranger. While his mother was welcoming Mr. Sands, and telling good-natured Sir Henry, with her kindest smile, that she remembered him as a little boy, John forgot his manners in gazing at the stranger. Why did he look so queer, and why did his eyes wander so anxiously round the low, shady old room?

"Mrs. Randal," said the Vicar in his gentle voice, when Sir Henry had said a few kind words, "we have come on rather a strange errand. And your son looks as if he almost guessed what it may be."

There was a moment's silence, while he and Sir Henry and Mrs. Randal all looked at John. She turned a little pale, and his colour deepened; he was half ashamed to be caught staring at the stranger. Colonel Maxwell seemed to notice nothing of all this. He was looking out of the door now; then he turned to Mrs. Randal and said in an absent, hurried way—"May I ask—where is the little girl who has been living with you?"

"She is in the garden, sir," answered Mrs. Randal, her voice trembling. "John, my dear, will you call Lily?"

"If the gentleman will please to excuse me," said John, "I would be glad to know first what he wants with Lily."

"It's all right, Randal," said Sir Henry Smith, rather impatiently. "We know how the child was found, and all that. It is a curious coincidence that my friend Colonel Maxwell had a little girl of the same age who disappeared just at that time. He saw the child in church to-day, and noticed a likeness. So be good enough to call her, will you. The sooner the truth is known, one way or the other, the better for everybody."

John heard all this very well, but he still lingered a moment. It was so sudden, so unexpected, though he had known it must come some day. His mother, though she felt as he did, was more equal to the occasion, for calmness and reason had grown in her with years.

"I shouldn't wonder if the gentleman's right, John," she said. "It seems to me, too, as little Lily has a look of him. Go and fetch her in, my dear."

"Shall I go with you?" said Colonel Maxwell, as John left the house.

"No, sir. Please to stop here," was the rather startling reply, which filled Mrs. Randal with confusion and turned her paleness to blushes.

"I hope you'll make allowances for him," she said hastily. "He is that devoted to Lily, he's never happy when she's out of his sight. You wouldn't believe, sir, as a young man like him could take such care of a child as he's taken of Lily, ever since the day he brought her home. She's been his first thought—almost too much, I might say—for he was going to be married to the best girl in the village, and they had words because he thought she'd taken the child against his wish to Carsham Fair, which she never had, and never would, for it was all a sad mistake—but Mary Alfrick, she had a spirit of her own, and that quarrel's never been made up, and never will be now, I suppose, for it's nine months ago, and she's left the place and gone to a situation. Mr. Sands, you know that's one of the biggest troubles I've known."

"Yes, Mrs. Randal; I was truly sorry about that," said the Vicar. "I still hope those two may come to an understanding in time, for they are worthy of each other, though patience was lacking on both sides. But now, before John brings little Lily, will you tell us the story of how he found her? I was only able to give Colonel Maxwell the main facts."

"Certainly, sir. Please to sit down, gentlemen," said Mrs. Randal.

The Vicar and Sir Henry did so, but Colonel Maxwell stood just inside the doorway, looking along the path, past the row of tall white lilies, towards the garden that lay beyond the thick shade of two or three old apple-trees.

The strawberry-bed, where John found Lily, was at the far end of the garden. She was very busy and very happy, having forgotten all about the "poor man" in church in the joyful surprise of finding more ripe strawberries than any one had expected. There was already a red and bright little heap in her basket; she had thrown off her hat, and her curly hair was shining in the sun, which had also tinted her cheeks with pretty colour.

"O John, such a lot!" she called out, as he walked slowly up the grass path between the currant bushes. "Is it dinner-time so soon, John? You must come and help me finish."

"No, you must come in now. I'm tired, I've got a stiff back, I can't stoop like you, little one," said John. "Look here, I'll sit on the bank while you get six more. That'll be enough for to-day."

"That'll leave a lot for the birds—but you like them to have some, doesn't you? Why has you got a stiff back, John dear? You's getting old."

"Ay, very old," he said, and he sat there for a minute and watched her.

He was selfish, perhaps, in not thinking enough of the man who was waiting so anxiously at the house door, a little uncertain whether this was really the recovery of his lost child. If John had seen any uncertainty in the matter, he would have led the child to her supposed father quickly enough. But Colonel Maxwell's face, the eyes, with their look of Lily, the whole expression so like hers, had been quite enough for him. As soon as he had had a good look at Colonel Maxwell he had known, without the shadow of a doubt, that Lily's father stood before him. And this father of hers—she would belong to him all his life—so surely, John thought—or felt, for he did not reason about it—surely he ought not to grudge these few last minutes to somebody who would have given his life for her cheerfully at any time within the last four years.

"Come along, Lily," he said, a little gruffly. "You've had time to pick a dozen. There, little one, give me the basket, and you shall have a ride on my shoulder once more. Once round the path, and then back home. Tired of your old horse, ain't you?"

"No, never, never!" cried the child with a little scream of delight, as he ran round the strawberry-bed, the little hand with its pink fingers firmly grasping his hair.

"Let me ride all the way home, dear John, please."

But John would not listen to this. Before they were in sight of the house he set her lightly on the ground again, and she ran on before him till the green path turned in the sunshine between the rows of tall lilies, taller than the child herself. There she stood still. The man she had seen in church was standing a few yards from her, looking at her as if they two were alone together in the world.

"A Lily among the lilies!" murmured Mr. Sands; but nobody heard him.

CHAPTER XII

TAKEN AWAY

"When I remember something which I had,
    But which is gone, and I must do without,
I sometimes wonder how I can be glad,
    Even in cowslip time when hedges sprout;
It makes me sigh to think on it—but yet
My days will not be better days, should I forget."
                                                                                —JEAN INGELOW.

Lily stood still at first, bewildered. Then the same attraction that she had felt at the church door drew her a step nearer to the stranger. He held out his hand, saying softly, "Will you come to me?" And she went forward at once and put hers into it, looking up into his face with a grave but sweet little smile.

"Would you like some strawberries?" she said.

Colonel Maxwell could hardly find voice to answer her. Mrs. Randal turned suddenly away to the house, with her apron to her eyes, and the old Vicar's too were dim. Sir Henry Smith, who stood behind, expressed his feelings by a smile and a long low whistle.

"Not now, thank you, my dear child," said Colonel Maxwell.

Lily liked his voice, for it was musical and pleasant, though it shook in a funny way. He held her hand and looked at her with a sort of shyness.

"Will you show me that pretty locket of yours?" he said. "I see the front of it—the letter L—but I want to see the back too—may I?"

Lily's quick fingers untied the ribbon, and she put the locket in his hand.

"The letter L belongs to you, Lily," he said, "but whose is this lock of hair, do you know? It is dark hair, you see—not like yours."

Lily shook her curly head.

"It's my locket; I've had it always."

"Yes, you have had it since you were three months old. It is your mother's hair."

Lily gazed, not at all understanding.

He tied the locket round her neck again, and then said, "Do you know who I am, Lily?"

"I ain't sure."

An odd quiver passed across Colonel Maxwell's face, but he recovered himself directly.

"You will remember by-and-by, perhaps. Now tell me—have you forgotten all about Toby? Who is Toby?"

"He's a dog!" exclaimed Lily, her eyes opening wide, as some faint vision of a bygone time seemed to flash upon her suddenly.

"I thought you could not have forgotten poor old Toby. Is he a big dog or a little one? And what colour?"

"Oh, a big black dog, and so curly!" cried the child, with a little jump. "He carried me on his back when I was a baby."

"Many a time have I held you there," said Colonel Maxwell. He lifted the little girl in his arms, kissed her, and set her down again. Then he turned to the Vicar. "Mr. Sands, this settles the question."

"It certainly seems so," said Mr. Sands. "You are able to remind the child of things she might naturally remember. Mrs. Randal and her son have done their best to find out what were her recollections of her home, but without much success, I think."

"I am not surprised at that," said Colonel Maxwell. "She was backward as a little child, and very delicate. When she was three years old she could not talk much, and had very little memory. But she seems quick enough now. Mrs. Randal, you have taken good care of her."

"I've loved her like my own," said Mrs. Randal. "Of course, sir, John and me, we couldn't bring her up according to her station, which was plain to us from the first. But we've done our best to keep her from all common ways. I think, sir, there was things she remembered about her home, in a faint sort of way. One day she told John about being carried upstairs, and a blue lady on the wall as looked at her—a picture, I suppose."

"Her great-grandmother's picture. And she is like her," said Colonel Maxwell. He turned to Lily again, who was still holding his hand, looking from one to another, and listening with a puzzled face to all this talk which seemed to concern her.

"There were two little boys," he said. "One had dark brown hair, like the hair in your locket, and the other was fair like you. You used to play all together in the nursery. The eldest had a rocking-horse, and you wanted to ride like him. You wanted to ride his horse, and what did you say to him?"

"Charlie, let Lily ride your horse!" was the instant answer. "Oh, and there was Tom! He was little, almost like me, and one day he kicked me."

"I dare say he did. Tom was always a Turk, and little brothers don't always know how to behave to their sisters," said Colonel Maxwell, and for the first time he laughed.

Lily laughed too. "Little brothers!" she said to herself.

"And now won't you tell me what your own name is?"

"Lily."

"Nothing more than that?"

"Lily Randal," murmured the child, with less readiness than before.