Orange Lily: Chapter XI

“He was a shepherd, and no mercenary,

And though he holy was and virtuous,

He was to sinful men full piteous.

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But Jesus’ love which owns no pride or pelf,

He taught—but first he followed it himself.”—Chaucer.

Lily slept but brokenly the night after the choir practice; and next morning slipped out as early as she dared to the field, where Tom was calmly holding the plough behind gray Jessie and the Tory. Not a scratch seemed upon him.

“Well?” she cried.

“Well!” said Tom. “I was at the tryst—but he was not. Hup! Wynd! Wynd!”

And he unconcernedly turned his horses at the head-rig. During the last half year, Tom had become a regular farm-laborer under James Keag, and had consequently been obliged to give up his schooling; but he attended night-classes, and read all the more hungrily than ever, therefore.

That noon little Hans and Henry-Thomas Keag appeared, as messengers of war, at the Gilhorns farm.

“Is Danny within?” they asked; and, on seeing the object of their desires, said significantly unto him, “Tom Coulter is waiting on ye, at the cross-roads.”

“Let him wait,” responded the sought one, flaring out at them.

“He was ready for ye at six this morning,” piped the smallest boy.

“D’ye think I’d rise from my bed at that hour for—for the like of him?” blustered Gilhorn, in weak passion.

“We’ll go back, and tell him ye’re feared,” cried the other boy, with delight, in a tone of mock pity; and both retreated.

Dan dashed out upon them in a fury; whereupon they took to their heels down the lane. He might have run after, to “box their little, imperent ears,” as he thought to himself, and, being so much bigger, must have caught them, when at that moment he spied a black clerical hat moving rapidly behind the high-road hedge that ran below the farm. Daniel stood still a moment; then, turning hastily into the kitchen again, took a sudden resolution—and therewith his hat from the peg. He was soon striding down the lane as fast as possible; not running after the parson—that would have attracted attention, as remarkable—but stretching his legs till they resembled extended compasses.

“Please, sir, might I speak with you?” he meekly called, when his last great effort had brought him just behind Mr. Redhead. The latter started, and no wonder, for Danny had come up almost noiselessly.

“I am in a great hurry, Gilhorn. I have to visit a sick woman in that cottage, and christen her infant; so—”

“There is something heavy on my mind, and, if I might consult your reverence as a clergyman, I’d be happy to walk that far beside you, if not presuming,” Gilhorn entreated, with deep humility; keeping step for step with Mr. Redhead’s quick strides.

“Very well, my lad; say it out,” said the latter, with hurried kindliness.

“Is it—is it right for Christians to fight, please, sir?”

“Eh? Why, yes; fighting for your country is a fine thing. Remember the centurion whom St. Peter visited, a good man and a good soldier, which brought him far on the road to being a good Christian. But you are not thinking of enlisting—eh?”

“Oh, no, indeed—indeed not, sir, I wouldn’t be so foolish for worlds, Mr. Redhead. It is quite different,” gabbled his hearer, very anxiously. “It is, if a person wants to set on one to give one a beating for—for nothing at all. What ought a Christian to do then, sir?”

“Don’t let him. Knock him down, of course, in self-defence; but keep your temper.”

“I thought you would have said it was our duty to forgive our enemies, and I’m sure I’m quite ready to forgive Tom Coulter,” murmured Daniel, in a most unhappy voice, feeling ready to cry.

At the mention of Tom, a favorite of his, Mr. Redhead pricked his ears more attentively and demanded an explanation. A little heartened, Danny fluently, almost breathlessly, since they were fast nearing the cross-roads, began his tale; grieving to say that jealousy of his (Daniel’s) singing had so demoralized Thomas Coulter that the latter had been challenging him to fight ever since, and even now awaited him yonder—as his reverence could see.

“Go and tell him you won’t. That would be more courageous than fighting,” said Mr. Redhead, decidedly.

“So it would, sir—yes, indeed; but I fear I have not the moral courage. They would laugh at me, sir, and I’d be sure to fight then. It’s only ten yards out of your way,” said the unhappy youth.

Immediately afterwards, Tom Coulter, the two elder Gilhorns, and some small boys, were startled by seeing Mr. Redhead bearing down upon them in hot haste, and Danny Gilhorn, with an air of conscious virtue, keeping close by his side.

“I have come to put a stop to this, my lads,” said the clergyman, with bent brows and stern voice. “Tom Coulter, I did not expect such ill-feeling from you. Were I not going to christen a dying infant, I would stop and say more to you all; but, as it is, I can only ask you, as your clergyman, to have no fighting … You’ll all do that much to please me, I believe.”

“Ay, and more,” hoarsely murmured every one.

Said the elder Gilhorn lad, in a shame-faced fashion—

“It was but some nonsense at the most, sir. We were carrying on for fun, like; but ye may depend upon us now till have done with it, Mr. Redhead. None would annoy you.”

“Thank ye—thank ye. And I hope you’ll make it up and shake hands, boys,” and Richard Redhead turned to go.

“I’m ready to do that now, sir,” ejaculated Daniel Gilhorn, in a hurry. “Thomas Coulter, I quite forgive you,” and he extended a limp hand.

As it touched Tom’s brown fist and withdrew itself, Tom—whose fingers had opened reluctantly, but perforce, as it were, to receive that precipitate token of reconciliation—could not suppress a rude stare, nor a slow grin that illumined his countenance. But Danny had already left the group, and was hurrying closely after the parson; evidently afraid that his good resolutions would melt, if he tarried one moment in the evil company behind.

An hour later, Mr. Redhead, emerging from the cottage with a quieter and cheerful air—for child and mother seemed likely to live; and, at least, he had thoroughly performed his duty and left comforted hearts behind—came upon Tom Coulter sitting moodily under the damp hedge, chewing a lump of tobacco, and (with consequent difficulty) attempting to hum,

“Holy water, holy water,

Sprinkle the Catholics, every one;

We’ll cut them asunder, and make them lie under,

The Protestant boys shall carry the drum.”

Now, as it happened, Mr. Redhead had a strong dislike to all party-feeling, orange or green. He also still more forcibly objected to the cutting of sound Roman Catholics asunder, as a notion chiefly held by sorry Protestants. He even would have preferred that his Ballyboly boys should not carry the drum; but as to that—common sense told him he might as well hold his tongue.

“I am sorry you can find nothing else to sing, Tom,” he said.

“So am I, sir,” said Tom, slowly rising to his feet. “But I know no other tune but hymn ones … I’ve little variety.”

“And, by the way, chewing tobacco is an idle habit, and sometimes an unpleasant one; especially in church,” said his pastor.

“Maybe, sir, but it keeps a body from feeling hung-ery; and I had to want my denner because I waited to speak to you,” replied Tom, unabashed.

“Did you? And it’s past one o’clock now, so I’m afraid you’ll get none,” said his friend, more kindly, knowing work began again at half past one. “What had you to say that you waited so long?”

“I was sore vexed that ye thought ill of me about the matter of Daniel Gilhorn,” quoth Tom, wrinkling his forehead like any old man, as he trudged on beside Mr. Redhead. “Ye’ve heard his half of the story, sir; now will ye hear mine?” And he quickly related his unvarnished version, compelling belief by his honest voice and manner.

“So he wanted to fight at the Castle, and called you a coward?” said Mr. Redhead, with a queer smile.

“Ay, he darred me there, on the top of” (after) “we’r hymn-practice; then to-day he—forgave me,” quoth Tom dryly.

The Reverend Richard Redhead stopped on the road and looked Tom in the face. Tom did so likewise to him. Then both burst into such a great laugh of hearty mirth that they vastly astonished a flock of rooks which were banqueting over a ploughed field hard by.

Order the new paperback edition of Orange Lily which includes an introduction, footnotes and a glossary of words by Dr Philip Robinson. The book also includes the short stories The Witch of Windy Hill and An Old Maid’s Marriage.