"I'll be up later, Mary; it's Lily's bed-time," said John, as he stopped at his gate.
Mary nodded, smiled, and went on with her flock up the lane, quite sure that she was the happiest girl in Markwood, if not in the world.
But when Mr. and Mrs. Alfrick heard that she had promised to marry John Randal they were furious in their different ways, and being neither of them accustomed to restrain their tongues, Mary had a much worse time of it than ever. Nothing her father could say was bad enough for John; all the public-house abuse was showered on his name, and he was further called a low, sneaking cur, not fit to speak to Farmer Alfrick's daughter. John had certainly been right in thinking that the farmer would look higher for Mary. But in truth, at the bottom of it, Alfrick had far too valuable help from his daughter to think with patience of her marrying anybody. And this side of the question keenly touched Mrs. Alfrick, who could not even try to think what she should do without Mary. So she was an ungrateful girl, and also a born silly, to give up a good home for the sake of a prig of a fellow like that Randal, good for nothing but to pick up foundling babies and carry them to his mother.
"And you're a heartless girl to so much as think of leaving me and them poor children, and if a judgment don't come on you I shall be surprised—so there, miss!" said Mary's stepmother.
But after all Mary had been prepared for these remarks by the well-known character of those who made them. She had never expected her home people to be pleased, and as for being congratulated and fussed over because of her engagement, that had never even occurred to her as possible. She was a plain-spoken, fearless girl too, with a rough tongue of her own when she chose to use it, and one must confess that her stepmother's remarks were neither received nor answered patiently.
With her father Mary took refuge in the proud reserved silence which was also natural to her. She felt and knew that she had done her duty by him and his children, and she knew too that with all his violence he was quite aware of that. Neither he nor the whole world, she was convinced, would ever come between her and John, now that they once understood each other. There was no hurry: she had told them John could not marry yet, though she had said nothing about the length to which that waiting might possibly be stretched. For herself, on this point, she felt a power of patience that seemed likely to last for years. A traveller does not much mind his miles of dusty road, if at the far end, shining in the sun, he can see the gates and towers of the city where he is going. So the rough words of her home fell lightly on Mary, for she had just then a world of content in her heart and no fear for the future. Nothing really mattered as long as she and John kept their promise to each other, and had the happiness of meeting every day.
As for John's mother, when he told her what he had done, her pleasure and surprise were almost equal. Men like John do not always choose women as good as themselves, and Mrs. Randal had had her anxieties, feeling that no other girl in the village was worthy of her son. But with "Polly" there was no doubt; there could be nothing but thankfulness. Besides being the steadiest girl for miles round, she had all her wits about her; she knew how to keep house, and how to make a little money go a long way. And John, like most men of his simple and generous character, could never get on without a clever woman to manage his affairs and keep his home comfortable.
Mrs. Randal's only doubt was caused by the long waiting. That did not seem to her quite fair to Mary, or quite wise for her son. If it had been only the one question of John's working and saving for her, she never would have consented to it; she would have been sure to get on somehow; they could have managed to live all together in the old house, she thought, for she and Polly would never quarrel. Watching John, she saw his eyes thoughtfully following the little fairy child that played about the room. There, she saw, was the difficulty. He loved that child. He would never give her up, never let her go out into the cold world to look for another shelter; never—unless she was taken from him by those who had a better right to her. And so, with her as his first object, he naturally feared to take on himself at present any further cares, any deeper responsibility. Mrs. Randal saw it all; she looked at Lily climbing on John's knees, at the smile that brightened his face as he stooped towards her, and she said to herself, "Well, I don't say but what we've took in a little angel unawares. Still—what with Polly and a plain, happy sort of life, I doubt as my boy mightn't have done better; but there, bless her pretty face, poor lamb, one would think I grudged her the only home she's got! He's done right, and the LORD will provide."