CHAPTER III
HOME AT MARKWOOD
"Lord, thou hast given me a cell
Wherein to dwell;
A little house, whose humble roof
Is weather-proof."
—R. HERRICK.
Markwood, the village where John Randal had lived all his life, and his father and grandfather before him, lay in the valley of the same little river that spread out into the ornamental water at Carsham Park, and turned the old mill at Carsham.
On the London road, not very far beyond where John had found little Lily, there was a place where four ways met, with a tall white finger-post pointing each way. There was the high road, running straight through from Carsham into even quieter and more distant country, with meadows and rows of trees leading down to the river on one side, and high green fields and woods on the other. Then there was a white chalky road through Fiddler's Wood, going straight off uphill to the right, hidden at once in the deep shade of the clustering beech-trees. Then there was a narrow lane to the left, which led past an untidy duck-pond, over a low bridge, past some tall poplars, a thatched cottage or two, and a large farmhouse, so winding on, with broad green margins, till it became the regular village street, where the cottages stood nearer together, each in its large straggling garden full of flowers and fruit. Farther on were the church, the vicarage, and the little old school; then the lane went on its way between tall hedges, now sweet with honeysuckle and gay with wild roses beginning to fade, till it crossed another low bridge over the quiet, shallow river, and ended its long loop by joining the high road again, about a mile after leaving it.
Thus it was very possible for the whole world to go driving along the high road from London to the west without seeing or knowing anything of the small village that lay buried there in the valley; for even the church tower, low and square, was hidden in summer by the trees.
John's cottage was on the left-hand side of the village street, the side that faced the river, the high road, and the woods. It was very old; the low walls were coloured yellow, and the roof was thatched, but all was trim and in good order. A beautiful Gloire de Dijon rose climbed over part of the front, the door and one window being also shaded by an old jessamine now just beginning to show its sweet white stars.
The cottage stood sideways to the road, and in front of the door there was a small paved yard, entered by a gate. The path which led to the cottage-door passed beyond it to the garden, where John spent most of his spare time. He had several fruit-trees, plenty of vegetables, and in front of these a flower-garden full of roses and white pinks. John had a special fancy for white flowers. At present the most conspicuous object in the garden was a row of tall white lilies, which stood up like a wall between it and the yard.
On the other side of the yard, opposite the house, were one or two sheds and buildings, so overgrown with ivy and roses that their old age was beautiful; and in front of them, facing the road, but entered also by a door into the yard, was John's forge. Here there were horses generally standing outside waiting to be shod, stretching their patient noses over the low paling, as if they liked to smell the flowers and to watch John's mother as she went backwards and forwards to the pump in the yard. Inside the forge was a warm red light, and a constant ringing and clanking noise of beaten iron; and the tall young blacksmith, strong and clever at his work, was a very grimy object as he bent over his anvil or blew up his fire.
John's mother was not the only person who found the village a different place when he was away. The farmers for a long way round would not let any one else shoe their horses, and grumbled mightily; the old vicar missed his fine bass voice on Sunday in the choir; there was nobody else who would pick up a small child in the road and carry it on his shoulder, safe and triumphant above its companions, yet a little frightened at finding itself so high in the air. John had many friends, and yet he was not the sort of man to be popular with every one: his likes and dislikes were very strong. Like many such simple, slow-natured men, he was not easily made suspicious or angry; but when the anger came it was more serious than that of most people.
Mrs. Randal had not spent that stormy evening alone. Mary Alfrick, the daughter of a small farmer near by, had come in to see her about tea-time, as she often did, and had stayed on for hours, unable to leave the poor mother alone in her terror at the storm, her anxiety for John.