Orange Lily: Chapter XXI

“Blest be those feasts with simple plenty crown’d.

Where all the ruddy family around

Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail,

Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale;

Or press the bashful stranger to his food,

And learn the luxury of doing good.”

Goldsmith.

“One

Who thinks the all-encircling sun

Rises and sets in his backyard.”

Goldsmith.

One evening, in the following spring, John Gilhorn came up to the Keags’ farm to drink tea, and accompany them to a village concert at Ballyboly. This was got up by the good Alexander ladies, under the patronage of the colonel himself and his wife; while the performers were to be some guests who were staying at the Castle, and also the church choir.

When Orange Lily entered the kitchen from putting on her neat black Sunday gown, she saw an unusual stir, and her step-mother, with a jubilant countenance, frying something.

“Pancakes to-day, mother!—what day is it?” the little ones were clamoring, plucking at her gown, for these dainties were significant of a gala day. And “Pancakes—what has happened?” echoed Osilla, with a joyful sound, poking a wild black head out of the closet she shared with her sister, then blushed.

“O Mr. Gilhorn, I didn’t know you were here, or I’d have come sooner.”

“Ay! verily, it’s for him the pancakes is. Oh, there’s great news of him entirely! He’s been at Maghrenagh fair, I’m thinking—haven’t ye, John?” humorously observed James Keag, and winked at his sons.

As this was the great “courting fair” of the district, supposed to be peculiarly frequented by young folk “up for marrying,” the two merry, gawky lads grinned from ear to ear, John’s state of singleness being a standing joke, with a fine old flavor about it.

“Was it a good fair, Mr. Gilhorn ?” cried the mistress, merrily joining in the attack.

“Ay—for beasts,” replied the embarrassed victim.

“But not for coorting purposes,” rejoined the farmer, with the heartsomest laugh he had given for many a long day, having grown duller of late months. And yet I’ve a notion ye’ve somehow suited yourself—eh, John?”

Big John actually blushed.

“Och, James! Quit, James! … be quiet, James,” he murmured, while a fine sunset effect was displayed on his broad cheeks as he devoured huge bites of buttered oat-cake, in the vain attempt to appear unconcerned.

“They are always teasing him, and it’s a shame,” hotly muttered young Osilla to her sister, being invariably John’s devoted champion.

But something unusual in the well-accustomed victim’s expression induced Lill to whisper by and by to her father, at a good opportunity,

“Is it true?”

“’Deed is it! Only don’t let on to the rest,” the farmer solemnly answered, but apparently having in his mind a well-pleased background of thought.

As for Orange Lily, her heart grew so light and glad she could have sung her usual grace after meat; and she gave poor John such a kind, sympathizing smile that it warmed him through and through. So, feeling gay, he made a great effort, and told them a story.

“Have you heard about my brother, and the church harmo-ni-um ?” he asked. “No? Why, that is a piece of fun—what you might call a ‘big piece!’ … For, the Castle ladies were wanting it up to the school-house for to-night; and he was laboring in his own field convenient to the churchyard, when the sexton called him, and says, ‘William-Thomas,’ says he, ‘the ladies were examining this instrument, and I understood them to say it was out of tune, by reason of the cowld getting into its inside. So, after they left, I lit some fire, to give them every satisfaction. Now, how near it would you advise for to put her?’ So, with that, the two consulted, and at last hoisted the harmonium right on the top of the big stove! … But when the ladies came down awhile later, you never heard such a whullabaloo as took place! And the colonel’s wife laughed till she cried, for they had it just over-roasted, she said! I ratherly think my brave brother will not meddle with harmoni-ums soon again.”

The whole party went that evening together to the school-house, where Gilhorn placed himself beside the Keags, and among the smaller farmers, on the school-benches; though he had bought a dearer ticket for the front chairs, behind the Castle party, whence his cousin Danny surveyed with a supercilious air. Mistress Keag was overjoyed at this proof of Big John’s condescension. Her step-daughter only inferred that his sweetheart was not present.

Now the Orange Lily had never once entered the school-house again since the days when she and Tom Coulter had gone there together, long ago. This night the walls were all decorated with flags and evergreens by the Castle gardener—yet still, there were the maps they had so often studied side by side; the black half-circle on the floor round which they had stood; the very form she sat on had been that of his class—the highest.

So she sat silent, and her heart grew tender thinking of those days, and the music melted her soul within her. In her opinion all the fine guests from the Castle sang beautifully, one after another; although Big John opined in a loud whisper, it was “just a wee thing too fine for him.” When Miss Alice and Miss Edith, skilled musicians both, got up upon the little platform, and played a duet on the piano, his face took quite a pitying expression.

“Poor old ladies! Och! och! they’re near done,” he whispered again, close into Lily’s ear, who sat beside him, clacking his tongue. “To think that it takes the two of them to play one tune!”

When the young woman, suppressing a smile, explained very low that it was not feebleness which prompted this fashion of piano-playing so new-fangled to him, the big man listened to her superior knowledge with respect; but, on a quartette being sung immediately afterwards, he barely controlled himself till the last note ended, and then burst out, in an under-gobble of excitement, “Well … well … well! You won’t tell me yon was good music, anyhow! The one singing up and the other down, and none sticking to the same notes. Such a hash and a mash I niver heard!”

Next the choir were called up to perform in a chorus, the Orange Lily and her brothers among them. This received much applause, for almost every one had a relation among the singers, and, when they slipped back to their seats, Big John said with fervor,

“I could pick out your voice, Miss Keag, amongst the whole pack.”

And Mistress Keag whispered in proud greeting to her sons, “I heard the bumming of ye both above all the rest of them!”

Thenceforward, having thus proved what they could do, the audience listened complacently to the gentlefolks’ far less loud attempts, although occasionally uncertain whether they heard Italian or English. Big Gilhorn, however, was fascinated by his brother’s movements, the renowned William-Thomas, who was fidgeting with some object he kept between his legs.

“What are vou fustling with, boy?” he muttered, bending inquisitively forward.

“It’s an opera-glass. They tould me it was grand for seeing with; but I’m something shy of using it,” responded the unlucky harmonium-mender.

“Put it up, lad, put it up!” encouraged his brother, as just then young Mrs. Alexander herself stood up to sing. And thus fortified, William-Thomas slowly drew out a small-sized telescope, and applied it to his eye.

In a few seconds the singer’s pretty face began to twitch curiously, and her gaze seemed spellbound to that quarter of the room.

“Can you see ony thing the better?” anxiously whispered John, while poor Lill felt a sort of amused but distressed shame, and two coastguardsmen near almost choked with smothered laughter.

“The deil a hait! It all swims,” was the muttered reply, as the disappointed one dropped his optical instrument. And Big John imparted thereupon to his neighbor, with a sagacious nod, the song being ended,

“I’ve no great opinion of telescopes myself—for once I had a queer curiosity about those spots in the sun’s face you read of in the newspapers. So I borrowed a spy-glass, and sat down under a hedge to have a good blink through it. But, would ye believe it—it burned me that bad that the divil a ha-porth o’ sun could I see! and the useless thing spoilt my eyesight on me for a good wee while afterwards.”

Going homewards, in the darkness, when about half way, Orange Lily found herself alone with Big John; since her step-mother had somewhat unusually called Osilla forward. She began to speak, therefore, with a shy, sweet voice.

“O Mr. Gilhorn,” she said, “is it really true you are going to be married? It would make me so happy to hear it.”

“No—would it?” muttered her big companion, after a doubtful pause, in a curious manner; and thoughtfully revolving in his pocket his huge door-key he there carried.

“Indeed it would! I am so truly glad to know you have given over liking me—or rather have found some one you like better,” Lill made answer, a tender mirth playing upon her last words, while her congratulation sounded as truthful as it had been gracefully uttered.

“I’m—heart—sorry—to hear—that,” slowly fell from Big John’s lips; and although the words sounded lumpishly spoken, that very weight made them sink into his hearer’s soul plumb, as if lead had dropped into her mind. She stood still, dumbfoundered. “Sure it was you, and none other, your father was joking about,” he went on, with a slow heaving of anger within him, poor man! at her past want of understanding, and a kind of shame, too, mingling in his voice. “I was not for naming it again for a year or so, maybe, till give you time; but in course of business with James Keag this day, it came out, unbeknownst to me like, what a heap I thought of you—O he was over anything pleased, and the mistress too—and they both bid me to speak up, and have no fears!” he added, in dull explanation, his mortification becoming tempered again by his patience, and the certainty that after all reigned supreme in his soul that Orange Lily was too good and tender and holy-minded a woman to make sport of him to the world, or refuse him without high reasons.

Lill, alas! knew now why the pancakes had been fried, and that her father had been so jubilant, her step-mother so solemnly wise-looking at times, that evening, out of their wont. She began again to walk swiftly after the others; but, for the next half mile, what talk passed between them was most painful to her. Between pauses of five minutes, poor Big John, without plucking up courage again to ask her downrightly to have him, yet offered to give her a month—six months—a year, to think the matter over, and although she gently but steadfastly assured him it was all of no use, he still persevered, as one who kindly offers to lay by some sweetmeat till a wayward child chooses to take it. At last he began to press so weightily and persistently to be told her reasons for conduct that seemed to him so foolish and incomprehensible, passing even most “women’s capers!” that poor Orange Lily, after striving to evade his directness of questioning, feeling distressed, perplexed, and
driven into a corner, let escape her lips rather than knowingly uttered,

“Mr. Gilhorn—I am promised to another man.”

“No!” ejaculated John, in pure surprise, after a long pause to draw his breath; then added, with bitter reproach for his wasted courtship, “And me after you—not knowing—all this time.”

“I could not tell you, indeed,” the young woman murmured, grieved and humiliated that he thought himself treated unfairly. “It’s maybe best to tell you all about it. It is to—Tom Coulter.”

“To your father’s farm-servant?” uttered Big John, as if he could not believe his ears, his pride stung to the quick on discovering such a rival.

“Yes, Mr. Gilhorn, just so. Now you would sooner look at the dirt under your feet nor me,” she answered, with a sort of sad satire, but the minute after began softly to cry. Now, if there was one thing on this earth which reduced the big man beside her to deplorable weakness, and shore him of his locks of strength, that was a woman’s tears. Before they had gone much further he was trying to console in his turn the comforting angel of all distressed Ballyboly with sighs, and clacks of his tongue, and pitying ejaculations. And so, between her tears, the saddened soul, being a little relieved to have a listener at last, told the whole story.

“But will he have enough to keep you, if he does come back?” practically inquired the disappointed rival.

“He won’t come back unless he has.”

“And if he never comes—it’ll be gey and hard upon you.”

“Whatever God sends me will not be too hard, Mr. Gilhorn,” Lill replied, drying her eyes at last, and with a sweet and cheerful assurance composing her voice again.

“In course not,” assented big Gilhorn, as to a proposition he could not dispute. “And yet whiles one thinks things might be as well for us easier!—when bad weather comes—or disease among the cattle, like.”

“Nay, I feel sure now that even the hardest times were best for me,” the poor soul said fervently, a thrill of such living conviction vibrating through her voice that it impressed the man more strongly than many a sermon.

Then she went on, gazing up at the changeless stars, and more as if pursuing her own train of thought, than seeking to persuade her hearer:

“Little by little I have come to understand it. When not a sparrow falleth but He knoweth it, and even the very hairs of my head are numbered, is it out of reason that a loving Father should order all the events of my life for my good, when I am of more value than many sparrows? I feel it … I know it, because I have asked and been answered! With fuller happiness, I would never have been forced into looking higher than this earth for my best gladness.”

Then she added lower, in a voice of which the low, fine tone fitly brought to the world outside the secrets of the innermost holy place of her mind,

“Maybe I am not fit, not worthy for the happiness and responsibilities of other women; maybe I would have worshipped my husband over much till have rightly served my God.”

“Plenty of rare bad ones gets married anyhow,” bluntly argued John. “And I wouldn’t be much of a one to be worshipped, if you took me!”

“Most likely it is the only chance of making the bad ones better,” calmly replied Lily Keag, as if on ground she well knew. “And, if they cannot rear their children to godliness, the little ones may teach them the way to the kingdom of heaven.”

Then neither spoke again till they reached the top of the farm-hill, where, through the darkness of the night, they could dimly descry the figures of the farmer and his wife waiting for them.

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.