Chapter V: Mrs. Alfrick

"O shame, O grief, when earth's rude toys,
An opening door, a breath, a noise,
Drive from the heart the eternal joys,
Displace the LORD of Love!"
--_Lyra Innocentium_

"I never heard such nonsense in my life!" said Mary's stepmother. She was standing, dressed in her best, in the rather untidy front kitchen of the farmhouse, where Mary was ironing some little pinafores. Her four younger children were playing about outside, swinging on the garden gate that opened into the steep lane leading to the village; finding what amusement they could till their mother was ready, rather to the peril of their Sunday clothes.

She was going to take them all to Carsham Fair. This grand event only happened once in three years. It was the finest pleasure fair in all the country round, and attracted crowds of people who hardly left their scattered villages and lonely commons between one fair and another.

Mrs. Alfrick was in high good humour. She had formerly lived nearer London, and often complained bitterly of the dulness of Markwood. She, like many other people of that neighbourhood, made those three-yearly fairs a date in her existence, counting up to them and down from them. This child or the other was born "a month afore last fair but one." Such an old man or woman in the village would never live to see next fair. It was just three months "afore last fair" that John Randal had picked up that child in the ditch. And it was "nigh on a year after last fair" that Mary had been such a silly as to promise to marry him.

More than two years ago that promise had been given. Mrs. Alfrick certainly did not wish to part with Mary, and would have grumbled heartily enough if John had found himself able to marry; but at the same time the delay, "wasting Polly's life," as she called it, made a fine text for her to preach upon when she wanted to tease the girl.

"No, I never did hear such nonsense!" she repeated; while Mary, who had been bustling about all the morning, helping her to get the work done, to dress the children and give them their early dinner, now bent gravely over her ironing-board, wishing the whole family would start off and leave her alone.

"There you are, thinking of nothing in the world but that child's pinners," Mrs. Alfrick went on, "while you might be going down to Carsham to enjoy yourself along with the lot of us. I do say it's a shame. If John was at home I shouldn't be surprised; but he's took a holiday and gone off to see his friends--just like his selfishness!--and left you to take care of his mother and that there foundling, as ought to have been sent to the workhouse long ago; and John, he ought to have done his duty and married you. It makes me downright sick to see the fuss you all make with that white-faced bit of a child. John thinks a sight more about her than he do about you, Polly, and you're a poor-spirited girl to stand it!"

Mary made no answer.

"There now, stupid, leave them pinners and come along. Your father'll be coming down presently, and he'd sooner see you there than not; and however am I to mind all the children by myself? It'll be the death of me. Come now, Polly, I'll wait for you ten minutes, that I will, with pleasure, and we'll call for Lily and take her down too. The children said she was crying 'cause she mightn't go. Mrs. Randal won't mind if she's with you, and serve John right, with his fidgets; he'll have to get over it. Come, Polly, you ain't bound to obey the fellow yet, any way."

"Now then," said Mary, suddenly standing upright with a very decided frown; "you know you're only wasting your breath. It's John's business whether Lily goes to the fair, and he told me to mind she didn't. So don't stop for me, if you please, for I ain't coming, and would rather stop away."

"Well, you might keep a civil tongue. I'm only speaking for your good," observed her stepmother. "Some day you'll know I'm right, when you're a bit tired of being that fellow's slave, and of seeing that conceited chit always put before you. Perhaps then you'll remember it was me as had to suffer, with all them children to look after, because you was that ill-natured and that selfish. Good morning to you."

She walked out of the house with an injured air. Mary was far too much used to her way of talking, however, to pay much attention. She called after her, "Look here! just tell Mrs. Randal as you pass that I've got the ironing to finish, and the house to clean up, and I'll be down as soon as ever I can."

Mrs. Alfrick did not condescend to turn her head or to make any answer. She called the children--the elder ones had gone on before--and they trooped off down the lane all together.

It seemed, however, as if her bark might be worse than her bite, for when she reached the blacksmith's cottage, she told the children to wait for her in the road, turned in at the little gate, and knocked at the door. It was opened by Lily.

The little girl was now, as far as they could guess, about six years old, for more than three years--it was now October--had passed by since that evening of summer storm when the old thorn roots had done their best to shelter her till she found a safer refuge in John's kind arms. She was a small, slight child, fair and delicate-looking, with beautiful, expressive blue eyes, hair still in the silky golden curls of early childhood, and a general air of grace and refinement that marked some difference, real or imaginary, between her and her companions at school and play. They all admired Lily and gave up to her; and if Mrs. Randal had not been firm as well as kind, this, with John's indulgence, might have been very bad for the child's character. But though she was self-willed and accustomed to take the lead, the home life of the cottage taught her to be unselfish, generous, and truthful. Lily had her faults, but they were not of a serious or a mean kind, and her loving little heart was quite devoted to John and his mother. Towards Mary she never, even now, showed much affection; the girl was undemonstrative and shy. But she took her as a matter of course, as something belonging to John, and therefore to be trusted, to be flown to in trouble, to be obeyed when necessary.

Mrs. Alfrick, when the door was opened, stared down rather in surprise at the slight little figure in the simple blue frock.

"Well, my dear, and where's mother?" she said slowly.

"Poor Mrs. Nash is very ill," the child answered in sweet tones, hardly spoilt by the accent of the county. "They came and fetched mother. She said I mustn't mind stopping alone for a bit, 'cause Polly was coming."

"Well, I never! Let's come in a minute, there's a good child," said Mrs. Alfrick, pushing the door, which Lily was holding open just wide enough to show her small self, and no more. "Well, I never! and so you're left all alone."

Mrs. Alfrick stood on the bright red tiles and looked round at the polished cleanliness, the exquisite order of everything in that little low room. She did not often pay a visit there, for there was not much love lost between John's home and Mary's. Her look now was one of both envy and admiration. "But how can one ever keep a thing clean with all them children about, and that girl Polly with half her heart down here?" she muttered, in answer to her own thoughts. Then she looked again at Lily, saw that the little face was not cheerful, that the eyes so wistfully lifted were not without traces of tears, and an idea came into her head.

"Serve 'em right, every one of 'em!"

Mrs. Alfrick had been a pretty woman in her time, and still possessed a certain attractiveness when she chose to smile and look pleasant.

"Mary ain't coming yet, my dear," she said; "she's got a lot o' work to do. I'd stop along of you myself, pretty, but I'm off to the fair with the children. There now; what's the matter now, what are you crying about, child?"

"I want to go to the fair," sobbed Lily; "I want to go with the other children."

"Well, to be sure!" murmured Mrs. Alfrick, smiling.

She sat down in the large red armchair, took Lily on her knee, and danced her about for a minute or two. She could not quite make up her mind, yet every moment the idea seemed more clever, the temptation more irresistible. It would be a fine trick to play on that disagreeable prig of a John Randal, a fine punishment for Mary, with her ill-natured ways. It could not hurt the child; she would be with the others all the time.

"Look here, Lily," she said, "would you like to go to the fair with me and Tommy and the rest of us?"

The child stopped crying and looked up. Then she shook her curls violently. "John said I wasn't to go."

"Oh, my dear, that was 'cause he was going away to see Mr. Bland, and there wasn't nobody to take you. Mother and Polly don't like fairs. But he couldn't have no objection to you going along of me."

"Couldn't he?" asked Lily, her eyes dilating joyfully.

"Of course he couldn't! There, run and get your hat and jacket; that nice clean frock'll do, you're such a good little girl, you keep so clean. Lizzie's and Louisa's frocks ain't fit to be seen an hour after they've put them on."

Lily had disappeared within the staircase door before this speech was finished. In two minutes she was down again in her Sunday hat and jacket, dancing impatiently on the floor in front of Mrs. Alfrick, who found the red chair very comfortable after a morning of bustle and fatigue, and was much amused by looking round at the possessions of John and his mother.

"Well, child, are you ready?" she said.

Lily came close to her and held up a little key.

"My locket, please," she said.

Mrs. Alfrick stared.

"My locket that I always wear on Sundays," cried the child, with an impatient jump.

Mrs. Alfrick had never heard of the locket which was round Lily's neck when John found her, and had never noticed the child on Sundays.

"Well, my dear, where is it?" she said.

Lily pointed to a small tin box on a high shelf. Mrs. Alfrick, with a sigh, uprooted herself from the comfortable armchair, climbed on another chair which Lily brought, and took down the box, partly moved by curiosity. There was the little gold locket lying in cotton wool, with a fresh piece of blue ribbon. It was soon tied round the little girl's neck.

"Did John give it you?" Mrs. Alfrick asked.

"Don't know. I've had it always. It's my locket," was the only explanation to be had from Lily. "Mother says I mustn't ever lose it."

A suspicion of the truth then flashed across Mrs. Alfrick's mind. It was not likely, certainly, that John could have afforded to buy Lily a locket which looked like real gold. It also occurred to her that Carsham Fair was not exactly the right place for a child with anything valuable tied round her neck. But these considerations did not trouble her much.

"Serve 'em right for being so close. They never told me as the child had a locket."

She took Lily's hand and hurried her out of the house. The other children were waiting impatiently, and the whole party were soon far on their way to Carsham. Mrs. Nash, the sick neighbour to whose house Mrs. Randal had gone, lived near the church at the other end of the village. Mrs. Alfrick assured herself she could not spare the time to go fussing back there. And John was safe away at Moreton with Mr. Bland; he had gone the night before, for no work was ever done on Carsham Fair-day, and he had not had a holiday since that week in London, more than three years before.

It was about an hour later that Mary, having finished her ironing, tidied the house, and seen her father off to the fair, started down the lane with Lily's pinafores folded under her arm. The village when she reached it was very quiet, strangely quiet it seemed to her, till she remembered that by this time nearly everybody in Markwood was on the way to Carsham. But this did not account for the utter stillness that reigned in the blacksmith's little yard, and in the garden, bright with autumn flowers, where Lily was so fond of playing. Mary looked round her almost anxiously, as she turned in at the gate. Even then she felt by instinct that the house was empty, and even then a quite unreasonable feeling of alarm laid hold upon her as she slowly, hesitatingly, laid her hand on the latch of the door.

The kitchen, of course, was empty; so was the tiny parlour beyond, where a few _Gloire de Dijon_ roses were still looking in at the window. Mary laid down her parcel and went to the staircase door, opening it, looking up into the darkness, calling once or twice, "Mrs. Randal, are you there? Lily!" But no voice answered.

With a vague fear that something dreadful might have happened, the girl ran softly upstairs; but the rooms were empty. She hurried down again and went out into the garden: it was possible that Mrs. Randal or Lily might be at the far end, behind the apple-trees. No; the garden too was empty; and she came slowly back down the pathway, puzzled, frightened, yet hardly knowing why. Mrs. Randal might have gone to see a neighbour; in that case she had no doubt taken the child with her. But it was not like her to go out when John was away; and it was still more unlike her careful ways to leave her house open. Mary remembered, however, that Mrs. Randal was expecting her that afternoon, and probably a good deal sooner than she had been able to come. Of course that was why she had left the door open.

Before going out to look for her, Mary glanced once more into the kitchen. Then she noticed Lily's everyday hat on a chair, her pinafore thrown on the floor, and also, most startling of all, the tin box where her locket was kept standing open and empty on the table.

"But wherever are they gone?" said Mary to herself. "Not to Carsham, surely!"

She went out into the road, looking up and down with wondering eyes. Hardly anybody was in sight; one or two men coming home early from their work to have their tea and be off to the fair; and one old woman, whom the village generally considered almost half-witted, leaning on a stick as she came hobbling past the forge. It was possible that she might know something, for she wandered about the village all day long, and took a deep, sometimes a mischievous interest in the affairs of her neighbours. Mary came out of Mrs. Randal's gate just as old Mrs. Pierce--Granny Pierce as they called her--was passing.

"Well, when I was as young as you," said the old woman, shaking her head at Mary, "I used to say as I'd dance at the fair so long as I'd a leg to stand on. But these young folks they're all in the dumps and doldrums. Well, what are ye looking at me like that for?"

"Nothing, Granny," the girl answered quietly. "I was just wondering if you'd seen Mrs. Randal and Lily. I can't make out where they've gone."

"Jane Randal ain't gone to the fair, she's not that sort, more's the pity," said Granny Pierce. "No more's your John. When be you two going to get married?"

"Oh, I don't know. Have you seen Mrs. Randal and the child? Tell me if you have, there's a good soul," said Mary.

"Yes, my dear, I'll tell you, 'cause you always, speaks civil-like to a poor old woman. They fetched Mrs. Randal more nor an hour since to Sally Nash what's got the high strikes. Seems as nobody else could keep her quiet. She'll go off in one o' them fits, you see if she don't, and a good job too, a poor measling thing. When you hears of it, my dear, you say Granny Pierce told you."

"But then, Mrs. Randal never took Lily with her there!"

"Not she, to be sure. Lily's off to the fair. She's sent her along of your stepmother and the children."

"Nonsense!"

"She did though. I'm old, it's true, and weak in my legs, but I ain't blind. I seed 'em all going off together, and that child running hand in hand with yer little brothers. All dressed smart for Sunday she was, with that there blue and white hat as you trimmed yourself. Well now, ain't you got a copper or two in your pocket, Mary Alfrick, for a poor old woman as has told you all them news?"

"Oh, I can't stop now, Granny," said Mary.

The old woman stood and looked after her, growling remarks that were not complimentary, as Mary started off to run. In another minute she was out of sight, for she had turned up the lane to the farm.

Ten minutes later Mary, in her turn, having hurried on the good clothes in which she felt bound to appear outside her own village, was walking at her fastest pace, sometimes breaking into a run, on the way to Carsham.

Fond as she was of Mrs. Randal, she now felt, for John's sake, really angry with her. When John had said that the child was not to go to the fair! And if Lily had over-persuaded her into letting her go, the idea of trusting her to Mrs. Alfrick, who was hardly capable of taking care of her own children, and certainly not of specially watching over a child of remarkable appearance, like Lily! And the locket, too! The treasure which only came out on Sundays, when either John or his mother always took the child to church themselves, and did not allow her to play with the others. It really looked as if the summons to poor Mrs. Nash in hysterics had deprived Mrs. Randal of her senses. What would John say?

Mary's one idea was to hurry to Carsham, to find Lily and bring her home. She was a delicate child and would soon be tired; the shows, the noise, the disorder and roughness of the fair were more likely to frighten than to amuse her, and Mary knew very well that her own relations would stay as late as they could, very much later than was right or wise, either for themselves or the children.

It was a quiet, cloudy afternoon; the beautiful woods, the tall trees that sheltered the road, were beginning to show the bronze tints of autumn; the old thorns, one of which had been Lily's cradle, were crimson with fruit. But Mary saw nothing as she hurried along the road, and took no notice of the traps full of noisy people that passed her, or the groups of walkers that she easily outstripped. There was a weight at her heart, though her feet seemed to have wings. Some great coming trouble whispered to her in the low wind that now and then rustled the leaves, hung over her in the darkening clouds. John's little darling! And almost the last words he had said to her were, "You'll look after Lily."

In the meanwhile, when Mrs. Randal was able to leave the poor patient a little calmer, and to make her way home, tired and longing for her tea, sure of finding it ready, and of seeing Mary and Lily's face full of welcome at the door, she only found a silent empty house where the fire had gone out, and she looked round in amazement, as Mary had done, on Lily's hat and pinafore and the open tin box. Where were they? What had happened? Mary had been there, evidently, for Lily's pinafores that she had taken to iron lay in a heap on the table. It was certainly very strange. Poor Mrs. Randal turned pale and pressed her hand to her heart. She was both bewildered and frightened. The house door open! Well, of course, Mary might have been obliged to go out somewhere on her own business. She might have run up home, and taken Lily with her, perhaps to see to the milk, if her father could not trust his man. But then it was so queer that she should have let the fire go out--and why should Lily have put on her best hat and her locket? It flashed into Mrs. Randal's mind that perhaps Lily's own relations had come and carried her off suddenly. And John away! But Mary--where was Mary?

She opened the door and went out into the yard. To her too the day seemed to have darkened, and a cold presentiment of misfortune touched her as if with an icy hand. Outside the railings Granny Pierce came hobbling along in her shabby cloak, wild grey locks escaping under her old sun-bonnet. No one else seemed to be astir in the quiet village street: everybody now was gone to the fair.

"Good afternoon, Granny," said Mrs. Randal, in her kind voice. "Have you seen my little girl or Mary Alfrick?"

"They be never gone without your knowledge, be they?" said the old woman.

"What do you mean?" asked Mrs. Randal, a faint flush rising in her pale face. "Gone where?"

"To Carsham Fair, to be sure. They're young, and it's the right place for 'em. When I was a girl," said the old woman with a chuckle, "I used to say as I'd dance at the fair as long as I'd a leg to stand on. Don't you tie up the young uns too tight, Jane Randal, or they'll give ye the slip one o' these days."

"You don't tell me as Mary Alfrick's taken Lily to the fair? She never would. You're talking nonsense, Granny, come!"

"I may and I mayn't," said Granny, with a cunning look. "What did you ask me for, if you didn't want to know?"

"It's impossible."

"You just listen to me. Never you trust them quiet ones. They's the worst of all. There never was a girl yet----"

"But did you see them going?"

"To be sure I did. And the little un with that sweet pretty hat on, all blue and white ribbons, as your John paid a nice penny for, I daresay."

Mrs. Randal stood quite still. The old woman watched her with half-mocking eyes. She had revenged herself on Mary, anyhow, for taking no notice of her request for a copper. Now she was thinking how some useful present might be extracted from Mrs. Randal.

But suddenly, much to her disappointment, Mrs. Randal turned back into her empty house and shut the door.

She set patiently to work to light up the fire, saying to herself, "What am I doing, to mind what that poor foolish old body says? If Polly has taken the child, Polly'll bring her back again. I'd best be quiet and get me some tea, and keep the kettle boiling against they come in. Polly won't be long, specially with John away. She'll know I'm anxious."

Nearly three hours later, when it was dusk, John lifted the latch and came in. His mother, still sitting solitary by the fire, started up to meet him.

"Why, mother--where's Lily?" were the first words he said.