Orange Lily: Chapter XXII

“The farmer’s thoughts? and were they something sad,

And did pale Conscience put her horse-hair on?”

Buchanan.

“The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow,

She draws her favors to the lowest ebb;

Her tides have equal times to come and go;

Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web;

No joy so great but runneth to an end,

No hap so hard but may in fine amend.”

Southwell.

“Well” called out Keag and his good mistress, cheerily, “when will the wedding be?”

“We’ll discourse about that, maybe, another year,” replied Big Gilhorn’s voice, with ponderous gravity.

Both the parents cried out; and the farmer, who, in his great amazement, was almost tempted to scent in this a sniff of popery, the abomination of all sound Protestant Orangemen like himself, demanded passionately, with that terrible doubt in his voice,

“Lilyun!—don’t tell me, your religion would drive ye to be a papish nun!”

“Hoot, James, you’re a fool! It’s only to be an old maid she wants,” jeered his wife.

“Listen now, the two of yez … I want no woman dragooned intil being my wife!” broke in Big John, stammering in his earnestness, but impressing them all therewith nonetheless. “It is her and me for it!—and noan else need meddle betwixt us. But—but if she’s nagged at on this account, we’re off our bargain, James!”

And, having thus gallantly delivered himself of his sweetheart’s defence, he made off down the hill with great strides, rattling door-key, knife, picker, tobacco-pouch, and the other furniture of his pockets, in an agitated manner.

Those left behind dismally entered the farm-house. Osilla had vanished; but the boys were encircling the peat-blaze they had stirred up again on the kitchen hearth, and looked up with bright curiosity. They were harshly bidden begone upstairs to their beds in the garret by their father, and slunk away in wonder at such unusual severity. James Keag mutely beckoned to his daughter, then, to follow him into the parlor. Mistress Keag might have gone with them; but was too daunted by her husband’s manner, which boded, in her experience, a rare but all the worse outburst of wrath. When such storms had, in late years, fallen upon herself, she had been used to invoke her step-daughter’s shelter, whose gentle influence with the father for peace was irresistible. But now, weakly deserting her helper in the hour of need, the good-wife murmured to herself, with blame, yet pity for the victim, “The dear help her—he’s fit to kill her!” and remained in the kitchen stirring the pigs’ food in the big boiler on the fire ostentatiously, as if every one must know she had to see to that; yet, to satisfy the cravings of curiosity, stealing on tiptoe every few minutes to listen at the parlor key-hole, since they had shut to the door.

Inside the parlor, the farmer stood looking at his daughter. His face was gray and so strange in its expression that, with a sudden fear knocking at her heart, she put out her hand with imploring gentleness, saying,

“Dear father, don t strike me. You did so once, you know, and I—I—never could quite forget it. Only, don’t do that … please!”

His gaze turned, at that, to one of such grieved reproach that she saw at once her error; but, before the words of quick atonement could cross her penitent lips, he had sunk down on a chair and laid his grizzled head upon his crossed arms on the table.

“My girl—my girl!” he groaned, “this is a bad night’s job for me.”

All his daughter’s fears of him had fled; but alarm for him took their place. She had never seen the easy-going, humor-loving, practical man like this before; and a good father he was to her, and dearly beloved, although as rough and hard on the surface as a nut’s husk.

She knelt down beside him in haste, putting her hands beseechingly on his knee.

“What is it, father? … Father, you don’t, surely, want to turn me out to a man I don’t care for? Have I not wrought hard enough, that you would wish to get rid of me?”

“My poor lass! Better turn you out to him than to the workhouse … ! I’m clean ruined!”

“Ruined!” repeated the poor girl, with a low, quavering cry; then, raising her eyes involuntarily, the prayer came from her lips as naturally, and only a moment later than that cry, “O my dear Lord—help us.”

The farmer put out his hand to caress her head, and went on more soothingly,

“Maybe it’s not just so bad … ! But how can I hold up my head till John Gilhorn, and you not marry the man, when I owe him nearhand fifty pounds?”

Orange Lily’s amazement was great! She knew, indeed, that things had gone badly with them of late; but her father was too reticent to let even her know how matters truly stood with him—much less his wife. Now, however, she coaxed him and besought him, till little by little, in low, broken sentences, he told her how small debts of long years’ standing, with their exorbitant interest to the petty usurers who fatten in the country as in towns, had never been paid off; how the last flax-crops had brought less than she guessed; and, as she already knew, the pigs had been diseased.

“And, if your mother had lived, things would never have gone so far astray with us,” he said, sighing. “But, with your step-mother and me it has always been, ‘take things easy,’ and ‘trust to luck.’ Then I told Big John there, near two years ago, how the very life was just sucked out of me with these wheen wee debts and their awful interest. ‘Faith,’ said I, ‘that money borrowed was like leeches, that, after curing, should stick on and kill you.’ And, like a good friend, he offered to lend me what would pay off the whole rick-me-tick!—and ask only fair interest as an honest man. Then, to-day, we met to speak on the subjeck, and I said if I had but ten pounds more to buy a beast at the morrow’s fair, it would answer me well; but, as it was, I had nought to pay him off with yet, forbye that I was sold up, and quitted this roof I was born under, and that I brought your mother to.” (James Keag’s voice choked). “‘God forbid,’ says John, and let on (intimated) there was one in my house he liked more than his money, and would gladly swap the whole kettle of fish with me for—only that, as a prudent man, he could not rightly afford it.” (Here the farmer gave a small shrewd smile, which his daughter was glad to see again).” But he offered me the money for the beast on the spot, and would take no denial.”

“My money! There is mine in the bank,” exclaimed Lily, in pure wonder that he had never asked her for it; and with a great sense of relief to find the matter not so hopelessly bad as the fear of ruin had implied. But her father drew his sleeve across his forehead, and answered slowly, with painful emotion,

“I feared that was how it would be, my wee Orange Lily. Take yours—that I’ve thanked the Lord for on my knees many a night, thinking it would still keep you from the workhouse, if all the rest of them went there.”

The girl sprang to her feet, and, touched though she was all through her at this evidence of his exceeding love, felt a quiver of indignation, none the less, that he should think her capable of possible meanness.

“Then I swear, father,” she said, laying her hand on the big Bible upon the parlor table, “that I will give it to the rest myself, whenever they need it. And if any of us must go to the workhouse, I will be the first!”

The poor father sighed, and rubbed his wrinkled brow, whilst his gaze travelled round the little parlor, resting on the best bed, the big clock-case, the mahogany-painted drawers, the glass corner-press, with the china tea-set inside. They were all dear to his heart from old associations; yet he would have sold all sooner than do this thing, which seemed robbing his child. Long she pleaded with him; long he resisted; but at last she prevailed.

Coming out victorious, as the young woman opened the door, somebody large jumped away from the other side with the lightness of a feather bed.

“Och, Lill dear,” whispered her step-mother, ingenuously. “I had my ear at the keyhole half the time, but I’m getting that deaf I could hardly hear a word. What did ye both say?”

When her step-daughter had sufficiently satisfied her curiosity, and caused her to moderate her astonished bewailing of the ill news of their debts by the consoling and repeated assurances that this need no longer signify—and that now they would all start almost unhampered in their joint struggle of life again—the good-wife sighed—and, brandishing the ladle, stirred the pigs’ food and sighed again.

“Well, you are a good daughter to us both; and that I always will allow,” said she. “But to refuse a man like yon is just throwing away the gifts of Providence” (and she rattled the crane to relieve her feelings). “At least, none can say I’m a jealous woman, or would have grudged seeing you drive past me in your own gig—not, indeed, but that John’s one is a tottering ould shandhrydan! But there is Osilla, too, crying her eyes out at the very notion of losing you. A soft-hearted big baby, at her age, as I told her; but maybe you had best go in and comfort the poor wean.”

“Silly child!” said the elder sister, tenderly, entering the sleeping-closet, wherein young Osilla was giving vent to small sniffling sounds in the darkness, stooping as she spoke to kiss a face buried in the pillow. “You are not going to be rid of me yet, if that is what vexes you.”

“Are you not going to marry him?” cried Osilla, bouncing upright, her elf-locks hanging about her.

“No, no. Not yet—if ever,” answered Lily Keag, slowly; bethinking herself, with an uncomfortable remembrance, of John Gilhorn’s last words, which seemed to foreshadow yet future efforts on his part. Then a dread crept over her mind, as if that “not yet” had been a prophecy her unwilling lips had uttered. If she slept ill that night and dreamed strange things of bygone times mingled with the present it was little wonder! For a host of sad, sweet old memories had been aroused from their partial oblivion by the stirring emotions of that night, and fluttered in her brain like the light-winged ghosts of former living glad facts.

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.