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.