Orange Lily: Chapter XII

“For roads were clad, frae side to side,

Wi’ monie a weary body,

In droves that day.

Here, farmers gash, in ridin graith,

Gaed hoddin by their cotters;

There, swankies young, in braw braid-claith.

Are springing owre the gutters.

The lasses, skelpin barefit, thrang,

In silks an’ scarlets glitter;

Wi’ sweetmilk cheese, in monie a whang,

An’ farls bak’d wi’ butter

Fu crump that day.”—Burns.

Several seasons of Lily Keag’s and Tom’s pleasant lives had slipped away among the well-cultivated, if treeless, windy fields of Ballyboly.

During that time both had left childhood behind them, with its easy joys and quick griefs. Sleeping and rising, working and resting, they had grown, almost without knowing it, into the youth of manhood and maidenhood; with its more serious troubles and duties, but also its stronger, fuller-filling joys. Their souls were ripening to gladness like grapes i’ the sun, that should yield good wine—ripening both to give and feel it, as at that age all human souls should. But some fruit remains sour on earth; and, at best, the capabilities of us all to feel keenly must be shrivelled, sooner or later, with the heat of life’s long day.

The friendship betwixt the farm maiden and the lad from the cottage was often made somewhat difficult to them nowadays. It had also become instinctively more hidden even from each other, but not lessened—strengthened, rather, iron-like, by blows, being hot with youth. Both, more especially Tom, began to undergo the sharp discipline of circumstance, and first felt it thus. During the winter and spring Lily had been allowed to go to one or two harvest-home barn-dances; besides the more frequent entertainments of school house concerts, meeting-house “swarrees” to enjoy tea and cake and hear moral addresses, much spiced with amusing anecdotes (like currants in a common loaf, “to make it more tasty-like”)—also lectures and prayer-meetings. To most of these her parents took her; but, whether or not, Tom Coulter was also often her companion, save where, owing to his position, he was naturally uninvited. To his mind (secretly also to hers) Tom was squiring her. To the parents he was merely their farm-servant, kindly allowed to accompany them, or sent to escort their daughter home. None else lived near enough to do so. And they liked him well—in his humble position.

So people see the same thing from opposite sides, and wonder angrily at each other’s different views thereof. What, indeed, could show us the whole of any matter, up and down its linked lines of causes and consequences, without end on this earth? No human eyes—not even, perhaps, the sight of purified spirits.

At some of these gatherings Daniel Gilhorn also appeared, since once a fortnight he came down to see his grandparents. He had quite a petty knack in timing his visits with any small merry-makings that could make the country less of an unprofitable yet still rude wilderness. And, at such times, he always paid particular attention to our Orange Lily. Tom believed in his angry heart that this was out of malice to himself. Lily naturally thought it was from admiration of her own douce self (and also, maybe, jealousy); and being but a simple lassie, thinking men’s liking harmless, did not see why she should be very unkind to the poor fellow, who had not much amiss in him.

Both were right, after all.

Matters grew worse between the twain in summer. It was the first Twelfth of July on which Lily Keag was old enough to go to the great meeting with her father and step-mother; and therefore a day of days to which she and Tom Coulter had looked forward since both were very small “weans.” For, though Tom had already gone thither several years, the delights of the Twelfth were still but gross material without what was life and soul in all things to him—Orange Lily’s presence.

Long ago—so long they could not remember when—both had solemnly agreed to “keep company” on this day. Lily had a new blue and white gown to wear, and a straw bonnet, trimmed with blue ribbons. It was not so gay as the flowery and feathered hats of many of her companions, whose imitations of the fashion were grievously vulgar—if vulgar means a striving to appear that which one is not; but it was very becoming.

As she made her father’s breakfast that sunny July morning, at six o’clock, he thought his girl’s voice as gay as the larks singing outside on the big hill; while her skin was as white as milk, and her cheeks ruddy as roses. She was pinning a fine orange lily in her bosom, when he said, smiling,

“Dan Gilhorn was telling me last night he’d look after you and your mother; for what with being Master, and one thing and another, I’ll maybe hardly can see you the day.”

Lily’s fresh face suddenly fell; the light of the summer morn seemed changed to her.

“Oh! father, I don’t—much—like him,” she slowly said.

Danny Gilhorn had dug a pitfall for her in going behind her back to her father; worse! he was no doubt rejoicing in having got the better of Tom. She saw that much in a minute. And although she could not think altogether badly of any well-behaved admirer—attachment to herself being of course, in her girlish mind, a proof of latent good in him, and some excuse for his ill-conduct to Tom—still she felt bitterly aggrieved that his admiration should spoil her day’s pleasure. She liked him well enough—when Tom was not by. But to claim her on this Twelfth was—was—too bad.

“Hoot! Not like him!” uttered her father, between the difficulties of first swallowing an oatmeal farl almost wholesale, then a saucerful of boiling tea in a succeeding gulp.

“Don’t be silly, my lassie. Isn’t he the grandson of my ouldest friend, nearly. What for do ye not like him?”

“He was very unfriendly and overbearing to Tom Coulter there, the other day too,” came evasively from the girl’s rosy, reluctant lips.

“Come! if that’s all ye can find to cast up against him! … Tom is a good boy, ay, verily! for his position in life—but a wee thing over-inclined to think himself as good as his betters,” said her careless father, slipping his gay, embroidered orange sash across his breast, and wrapping the red cloak of mastership about him as he rose. “Ye must mind he’s only our servant-boy … Young Gilhorn will have his grandfather’s farm, most likely, left him, as he was telling me, so Tom would not be so impudent as to even himself with him.’

“Let the boys mind their own quarrels; the girls have no call with them,” added Mistress Keag, with some significance of tone, as she poured fresh water into the teapot and then shook it soundly, as if hoping thereby to extract more strength from the tea-leaves.

The drums began to beat in the village; the children clamored; all went out in haste to join the neighbors and follow the procession of flags, drummers, fifers, and gay-scarfed Orangemen. Poor Lily felt all bewildered—it was so unlike the day she had dreamed of beforehand. There was Tom Coulter, handsome and strong and straight, marching with the rest, but glancing darkly towards herself with Daniel Gilhorn simpering by her side. At the start he had come near her, and whispered—

“What’s wrong—why won’t you look at me—what is Gilhorn up to now?”

But she could only answer, without being overheard—

“It’s all wrong! Go away for a bit, Tom; but come again.”

She saw he was amazed, proud, and deeply mortified. Little wonder!—as, on the very evening before, they had smiled rather meaningly in each other’s eyes when Tom had asked, but with quiet assurance of favor and significant emphasis, “I may walk with you the morn’?” in a tone reminding her of bygone promises to that effect; and she had answered, “Surely.”

Now all was changed.

She was quick-witted enough to guess that her step-mother had lately been giving her father some hints that, since she was “already a lump of a lass,” it was time to see that she kept company with her social equals; for honest Mistress Keag was an inveterate match-maker. It was not that they were angry with Tom.

“No! worse luck—they never even thought of him in such a way,” reflected the poor child. Unpleasant self-suggestions, careless words of others since a year or so back, had in some degree awakened her mind to the plain truth that socially Tom was, of course, much her inferior. But, until this morning, the thought had never been called on to fully confront her—or rather its consequences. Or rather its consequences! She had never truly thought about them, not being given to thinking, honest and sweet young soul, but only to feeling; and she could not think now. But she shivered slightly; and Daniel Gilhorn beside her laughed.

“One would think you were cold, Miss Keag,” said he. “And this such a sultry day! What a warm heart you must have, he! he! when this weather is too chilly for you! I’d like to have such a heart,” with an affected sigh.

“I’m not cold, thank you,” retorted Lily; looking now, indeed, hot with vexation. She felt utterly incapacitated by young Gilhorn’s fine speeches, which made her feel foolish; quoth Tom once bitterly, “the foolishness was in themselves.”

As the stream of people passed down the dusty roads, and the drums beat noisily, and the sun grew hotter, the fun and jesting somewhat slackened. Mistress Keag, who had been very merry at first with the neighbors, began to complain of her corns. Danny, who was in dudgeon because the Orange Lily did not properly appreciate the honor he was paying her, became snappish. Lily thought she alone really had something to be cross about; the day was so disappointing. But the sight of Tom’s cap ahead a little comforted her. She would manage to get near him soon.

“How much further have we to go? These roads are very different walking from the streets,” asked Dan by and by, limping, as Lily thought, with contempt, effeminately.

“Three miles more—five in all,” she said briefly.

“What a pity we didn’t take the cart to bring us all, and Tom Coulter would have driven us!” cried Mrs. Keag.

“It’s not a vehicle I am partial to,” said young Dan, mincingly, to Lily; but under his breath, so that her step-mother should not hear. “A jaunting-car is more in my style. And Mr. Thomas Coulter’s clothes is not a handsome coachman’s livery—he, he!”

“He doesn’t spend all he has upon them, certainly,” retorted Lily, looking sideways at her companion’s round hat and the gloves he absolutely wore with such a conscious smirk.

“His all would not be very much, anyway, I should think,” replied Tom’s rival angrily.

And Lily said nothing, being too slow of speech; but thought with some exasperation that Dan always seemed to hold her father and mother and Tom as vulgar, dull folk, of no account. “His town ways just make me uncomfortable,” she thought. But then, without doubt, many of the other girls were envying her such a fine admirer.

Other lodges now joined them, swelling the procession; the din of drums became deafening. When they reached their meeting-ground—a green hill, with a platform erected half-way up it—there were several thousands of people already assembled round the latter central point, where some clergymen were conducting prayer.

Suddenly Lily missed her step-mother, and, a few moments later, saw that “tearing, fine” Orangewoman fighting her way to the platform through the thickest of the throng. Left to Danny’s sole care, the girl could only remain disconsolately on the outskirts of the crowd; but tried to compose her disappointed mind by reverently standing still, and seeking to catch what words of devotion came floating down the wind. Danny, meanwhile, sniggered, and jocularly asked her, from time to time, whether she wished him to go down on his knees in the open field. Lily grew much annoyed. The staid, honest little maiden felt she could better bear anything than ridicule.

When she had heard with difficulty part of a speech about the battle of the Boyne, that day thus gloriously celebrated, she grew weary—and yielded to young Gilhorn’s urgings to walk about the outer limits of the large field with him, like some hundreds of other couples. But, as it was now some two hours past noon, and that both were hungry and tired, they spent the time in bickering on Danny’s part, in disconsolate forbearance, unlit by a spark of gayety, on poor Lily’s.

She could not quarrel, nowadays, any more than as a child; but she could look thoroughly, silently wretched, which offended her young man much more.

“I see my company is dee tropp, Miss Keag,” he said stiffly at last; adding, with a curl of his nose and lip, as if there were bad smells about, “if you know what that means. Indeed, I would have gone to escort some other very handsome young ladies two hours ago; but thought it a pity to see you deserted by your friends.”

“I’m sure I wish over anything that you hadn’t inconvenienced yourself for me!” cried Lily, with reviving spirit; then, seeing a neighbor at some distance, she hurried towards her, and asked protection for the remainder of the day. The neighbor, who was known as a deaf and particularly querulous old woman, accepted a victim grudgingly enough; although secretly rejoicing.

“I hope you’ll enjoy yourself, miss.” said Dan, turning away with a malicious grin.

Another miserable long time was spent by poor Lily in turning her neat head anxiously from side to side, watching for deliverance, yet endeavoring to be agreeable to her caretaker, who insisted on being told all the gossip of Ballyboly.

“O! here is Tom Coulter!” she cried at last, with sudden joyousness, beckoning to him eagerly.

“Well, ye’re the terriblest wee girl of your age in looking after the boys ever I seen,” said the old neighbor vindictively. “It’s ‘stay with me’ while ye want me, but if a lad comes within a mile, hi! ye’re up and after him. O—! that’s the lasses, all over the world.”

“Don’t heed her talk. Come away,” muttered Tom imperatively; and, as usual, Lily meekly obeyed him. Then, when they had got safely off, he turned to her. “What on this earth took ye to thon ould witch? Ye looked like a poor wee pigeon beside a gray crow!”

Half laughing, half crying, the child told him how matters had gone. But now she felt thoroughly happy; the day was glorified on a sudden; with Tom she had a thorough trust of being cared for, as with no one else she then knew on earth.

“You look as starved as a little crowl. Have you had nothing to eat?” went on Tom.

“Mother had all in her pocket; and so when I lost her I lost my dinner,” laughed Lily, as cheery again as a bird. Tom had noted her disconsolate face all morning, from afar. He saw the change now, so no wonder he spoke tenderly to her. Lad though he still was, their disappointment on separation that morning had worked in him to thought already.

He took her away to one of the little temperance booths, and treated her to a cake or two, and some sarsaparilla-water, the favorite beverage of teetotalers through the country. Then said Tom, with sparkling eyes—“Have ye heard the news about the Catholics? Boys! but we’ll have a spree this evening.”

“No. What are they after?” asked Lily, looking up from her tumbler with parted lips.

“Sure, our ones are not going home the same road, but away round by Maghrenagh; and the Catholics say they are coming out to meet us there. And if they do! … Hurroo! there’ll be the biggest shindy ever was!”

And Tom threw up his cap with a gesture of ecstatic delight. Lily clutched his arm, to his astonishment, she that was, in general, so far from easily frightened.

“But, Tom, they’ll kill some of us—they’ll maybe hurt you.”

“Not they. We’ll kill them,” returned Tom confidently. “Don’t be feared. All you women and children will go back the same road as this morning. Do ye really imagine we’d let one of you be hurt?”

“But, Tom, you’ll come back with me? Oh! do—Tom! You asked me yesterday to walk with you, and I’ll walk home with you,” poor Lily still pleaded, with tears in her eyes, her voice trembling.

“What! and miss the fight!” and Tom’s face fell as much almost as her own. “Lill, dear, you know well I’d do a heap more for you than for any other one on earth, let alone my own father. But don’t ask me to give up this fight—don’t now.”

So Lily swallowed a sob, and of course did not ask him. They turned away, and almost immediately met Mistress Keag.

“The dear bless us and save us! if I haven’t searched for you, child, till I’m heart-sore and sorry,” vociferated that false, merry soul from afar. “Come away home, woman dear. There will be queer work the night—and we’ve got a lift in a cart. Ochone—O, my corns!—but they’ll all be kilt. (It’s the boys, I mean; but shure I’m just daundhered in the head!) And Dan’l Gilhorn, quiet lad! will take the seat with us; for his old grandfather would take on the worst ever ye heard if he was no’ back early. A good grandson! … Take ye that to heart now, Tom Coulter, and stop yer grinning. Danny will be a decent well-to-do man, when ye, maybe—”

“Won’t own as much ground as would sod a lark; except, maybe, what might be on my grave, Mistress Keag,” answered Tom, with a bitter laugh, for a young lad of his age, when she paused for want of an idea; his allusion being to the fresh scrawls or sods that are daily placed in the cages of caught larks to encourage them to sing. The good woman looked at him surprised; but hurried away to the waiting neighbors. Then Lily was packed into the hinder end of the cart, on a board placed across it; and squeezed between her step-mother and another stout body, shaken to a jelly with jolting over the rough roads, but minding nothing but her fears, was taken homewards at a crawling pace.

“Dear, oh! … The Lord grant there may be no ill fighting,” ejaculated the women beside her, at various times. She alone did not thus pray aloud; but only because she was praying all the while in her heart as strong and long as she could, that not a black hair of Tom Coulter’s head, nor a gray one of her father’s, might be hurt.

All day it had been sultry; but, for an hour back, the sky had been redly copper-colored and lowering. Then—just as the Keag women reached the farm, and just as it was calculated that Orangemen and Roman Catholics would be then about meeting—broke out the most furious thunderstorm ever remembered thereabouts for years. Both bodies of intending combatants scattered away for shelter, it was known afterwards. Had they stayed, it seemed almost as if they and every living thing on the earth’s face would have been drowned. Even when the fury of the storm abated, the rain continued to pour in torrents long after the rattle of thunder and blaze of lightning had died away. All straggled homewards then in twos and threes; as James Keag related when, wet and weary, he too reached his door.

“Ochone! but the weather made a sore hand of this day’s diversion. My! but it was a pity ye couldn’t get at those black Papishes to give them a beating,” now bewailed Mrs. Keag, being of such stuff that she herself would willingly have filled her apron with stones to clod therewith all religious opponents. Lily alone was sad and silent. She crept away to the bed she shared with her little sister Osilla, and wept. Wept the night after this great Twelfth of July to which she had so long looked forward; but its disappointments had been so many, and the thoughts it had created so bitter. Still there had been a few bright moments even therein; and Tom had called her “Lily—dear,” which for months and months back he would not have ventured to do. Nevertheless, he had been despised, as to his humble birth, by those she held dearest; although praised for well-nigh all things else. Her simple little brain grew confused, till it felt sick, over this complication.

In the morning Osilla woke her up by pushing her and crying—

“Lill, Lill! the rain must have come through the roof last night—look, I see the marks of it on the pillow! That was sore rain, surely!”

And her sister, without seeming astonished, answered, with a sigh—“’Deed was it, Silla dear.”

All her life after she remembered that Twelfth of July like an ugly dream.

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.