somewhat grubby hands on his sister's shoulders. "Alice in the dumps?
That is something quite new. Can't you cut some big candles in two and
stick them about? Here's Cousin Mildred--ask her. She'll be sure to hit
upon something."
"No, don't bother her," whispers Alice, giving him a warning pat, as a
pretty girl some years older than themselves enters the room. "She is
so disappointed at getting no letter again to-day--I am so sorry, for it
has quite spoiled her Christmas. Hush! don't say I told you anything
about it."
"What mischief are you two children plotting?" Cousin Mildred tries to
speak cheerily, and to turn her face so that they may not see any traces
of tears about her pretty blue eyes, but there is a little quiver in her
voice which betrays her.
In a moment Alice's arm is round her neck and Bertie is consoling her
after his rough and ready fashion.
"Cheer up, Cousin Milly! I'll bet anything you'll get a letter
to-morrow."
"I can't do that, Bertie, I'm afraid, for the postman doesn't come on
Christmas Day."
"Doesn't he? What a beastly shame! I declare I'll speak to Father"--
"No, no--your father knows all about it--it's quite right, and I'm so
glad the poor old man has one day to spend comfortably with his wife
and children. I don't quite know why Cecil has not written--but
worrying about it won't do any good. Now let us talk about something
else. Alice, when you can be spared from the tree, Mother wants all the
help she can get for the Church-dressing."
"Is she down at the Church now? All right darling--I'll come in two
minutes. Isn't it a plague about these candles? The shops are sure to be
shut in Appleton the day after Christmas, and the poor children will be
so disappointed if we have to put off the tree."
"The poor, dear school-children! Oh, that is a pity. But candles--oh,
dear! I don't know how we can do without them. Is it quite impossible to
send to Appleton to-day?"
"Why, to say the truth I asked Father this morning, and he said there
was no one to go. You see Coachman is away for a holiday, and Sam is as
busy as he can be--and there is no one else who can be trusted with a
horse--and one cannot ask anybody to trudge five miles and back through
the snow, though it is not at all deep."
"And there is more snow coming, I fear," says Mildred looking out at the
grey, thick wintry sky--"it is awfully cold. Ah! there is a feeble
little ray of sunshine struggling out! Well, I must go back to my
occupation of measuring flannel for the old women's petticoats--it is
nice and warm for one's fingers at any rate. And, Ally dear, tell Mother
I'll join her at the church as soon as ever I can. The keepers have
brought us such lovely holly out of the woods--you never saw such wealth
of berries. The wreaths will be splendid this year."
And Mildred goes away humming a little Christmas carol, and bravely
trying to forget the sore anxiety that is pressing on her heart, for the
faraway soldier lover whose Christmas greeting she had so hoped to
receive to-day.
"Isn't she a trump?" cries Bertie, who can see and appreciate the effort
his cousin is making. "I know she has half cried her eyes out when she
was by herself, but she didn't mean us to find it out. I say, Alice,
I'll have another try for that letter of hers, and get your candles too.
Grey Plover has been roughed, and he's as sure-footed as a goat--the
snow is nothing to hurt now, and I'll trot over to Appleton and be back
in no time at all."
"Oh, Bertie, don't! Cousin Mildred said there was a snow-storm coming,
and you might get lost like the people in the Swiss mountains"--
"Or the babes in the wood, eh? You little silly, don't you think I'm man
enough to take care of myself?"
And Master Bertie who is fifteen, and a regular sturdy specimen of a
blue-eyed, sunburnt curly-haired English lad, draws himself up with
great dignity and looks down patronizingly at his little sister.
Alice, of course, subsides, vanquished by this appeal, but she cannot
help feeling some very uncomfortable qualms of conscience when it
appears that she is to be the only person admitted into the young
gentleman's confidence.
"Don't go bothering poor Mother about it--she always gets into such a
funk, as if no one knew how to take care of themselves. And be sure not
to say a word to Cousin Mildred--I want to surprise her by bringing her
letter by the second post. And if Father asks where I am--oh! but that
will be all right. I shall get back before he comes home from
shooting"--and Bertie is gone before his sister has time to put into
words the remonstrance she has been struggling to frame.
"He'll miss his dinner--poor dear"--she thinks compassionately, but is
consoled by the remembrance of an admirable pastry-cook's shop in
Appleton where the ginger-bread is sure to be extra plentiful on
Christmas Eve of all days in the year.
"A real old-fashioned Christmas, Father calls it!" thinks Alice as she
goes to the window and looks out at the whitened landscape, amongst
which the leafless branches of the trees stand out like the limbs of
blackened giants. The snow which has been falling at intervals for some
days is not deep, but there is a heavy lowering appearance about the sky
betokening that the worst is yet to come. The little birds, which Alice
has been befriending ever since the winter set in, come hopping
familiarly round the window, and one saucy robin gives a peck to the
glass, as if to intimate that a fresh supply of crumbs would be
acceptable.
Alice feels in her pocket for a bit of bread and finding some fragments
hastily scatters them on the window-ledge, promising a better repast
by-and-bye. Then she gives a last look at the half-dressed Christmas
Tree, shakes her head over the insufficient candles, and murmuring that
Bertie really is the dearest boy in the world, runs off to aid her
mother in decorating the old village Church.
Meanwhile Grey Plover is swiftly and resolutely bearing his rider over
the half-frozen snow in a manner worthy of his name. He is a handsome,
strong-built pony, Squire Chetwynd's gift to his son on his last
birthday, and a right goodly pair they make, at least in the fond
father's eyes.
Perhaps if either Mr. Chetwynd, or his steady old coachman had been at
home, Master Bertie would not have found it quite so easy to get his
steed saddled for that ten miles' ride, with the ground already covered
with snow, and the heaviest fall that has been known for many a year,
visibly impending.
There is a keen north-easter blowing, but Appleton lies to the west, so
that for the present it only comes on the back of his neck, and Bertie
turns up his collar to keep out the flakes which seem scattered about
here and there in the air, and trots bravely along, whistling and
talking by turns to his pony, and to a wiry little terrier, which is
really Cousin Mildred's property, but in common with most other animals,
is deeply devoted to Bertie.
"Steady, lad, steady," and Bertie checks his steed as they descend a
somewhat steep incline, bordered by high hedges, of which the one to the
north is half concealed by a bank of snow.
"I declare I never thought it could have grown so deep in the time,"
mutters Bertie to himself. "I hope it won't snow again before to-night,
or I shall have some work to get home. What's the time? Just two--all
right--two hours more daylight at any rate--more if a fog doesn't come
on. Good-day, John, Merry Christmas to you," as the village carrier, his
cart heavily laden with Christmas boxes and parcels, passes him leading
his old horse carefully up the hill.
"The same to you, Master Bertie, and many of them. How be the Squire and
Mrs. Chetwynd, and"--
"All well, thank you, John, but I can't stop to go through the list now.
I've to get to Appleton and back as soon as I can."
"To Appleton! Laws now, Master Bertie, don't 'ee do nothing of the kind.
As sure as I'm alive there's awful weather coming, and you and that
little pony will never get back if you don't mind."
"Little pony indeed, John! Grey Plover is nearly fourteen hands--and do
you suppose I care for a snow-storm?"
Old John points to the wall of gray cloud advancing steadily from the
north-east.
"You just look yonder, Master. If that don't mean the worst storm that
we have known for many a long year, my name's not John Salter."
"Well, then, I must make all the more haste. If I don't turn up by
church-time to-morrow, you and old Moss will have to come and dig me
out! Come along, Nettle!" and whistling to the terrier which has been
exchanging salutations with the carrier's old half-bred-colly, Bertie
canters on.
* * * * *
"I don't think I can find time to go home to luncheon," says Mrs.
Chetwynd casting an anxious eye round the half-decorated church, which
presents a one-sided appearance, two columns being beautifully wreathed
with glossy dark leaves and coral berries, shining laurel and graceful
ivy, and the third as yet untouched.
"Mildred, when you come back, will you and Alice bring me some biscuits,
and I can eat them in the vestry. The daylight now is so short, and I
think to-day is even darker than usual. We shall have to work very hard
to get finished in time."
"I'll stay with you," replies her cousin, "and Alice shall bring
provisions for us both," and by this means the secret of Bertie's
absence from the early dinner remains unobserved.
It is snowing heavily as Alice, in fur cloak and snow-boots, trips back
to the church some quarter of a mile distant from her home.
The girl is beginning to be very anxious about her brother, and sorely
repents her extorted promise of secrecy as to his intentions.
"We are getting on," says Mrs. Chetwynd glancing round, "I wonder if
your father will look in on his way back from shooting. I suppose Bertie
must have gone to join him, as we have seen nothing of the boy. I hope
they won't be late; the snow is getting quite deep."
A hasty knocking at the Church-door makes Alice start and turn so pale
that her cousin laughs at her for setting up nerves. Before however they
can open it the intruder makes his own way in, and proves to be the
stable-helper, with a face so white and scared that the alarm is
communicated to Mrs. Chetwynd.
"Milly," she says faintly, "there has been some accident--ask
him--quick--Herbert's gun"--
"No, no," says her cousin bent only on re-assuring her, "speak out,
James--don't you see how you are frightening your mistress?"
"If you please ma'am, Gray Plover has come home alone, and"--
"The pony! Master Bertie wasn't riding?"
"Yes, ma'am--he started to ride to Appleton about half-past one
o'clock"--
"To ride in such weather!"
"Yes, ma'am--he _would_ go--and the Squire not being at home I could not
hinder him--and now the pony's just galloped into the yard, and"--
"Mary, dearest, don't look so frightened!" cries Mildred, fearing her
cousin is going to faint. "I daresay he got off to walk and warm
himself, and the pony broke away--Bertie rides so well, he would not be
likely to have a fall"--
"But the snow! Isn't it quite deep in some places, James?"
"Yes, ma'am--six or seven feet they say in the drifts, though most part
of the road was pretty clear this morning. But it's been snowing heavily
these two hours and more, and nearly as dark as night--and Grey Plover
must have been down some time or other, for when he came in _the saddle
was all over snow_!"
Mrs. Chetwynd gives a gasp, and for a moment her cousin thinks her
senses are going, but with a brave struggle she rallied her powers.
"James, you and the gardeners had better go off at once, two of you try
each road to Appleton, to meet Master Bertie. Alice dear, run up to the
house, and fill father's flask with a cordial--and see that they take
it, and--and a blanket--and tell some one to go and meet your father--he
will know best what to do--I must go myself to look for my boy--God help
me--what shall I do if he has come to harm?"
"You cannot walk, darling," and Mildred tenderly leads her to one of the
open seats, and strokes her hands in loving but vain efforts at
encouragement--"don't imagine anything bad till it comes--Bertie is sure
to have taken some of the dogs with him, and they would have come home
to tell us if anything were wrong!"
"There was only little Nettle at home," Mrs. Chetwynd answers with a
sigh--"Jerry and Nell are out shooting with Herbert, and the new dog is
no use. Oh Milly, my bright bonny boy, where can he be? See how
dreadfully dark it has grown and the cold--think if he should be lying
helpless in the snow!"
About the same time on this December afternoon a young man is getting
out of the one-horse omnibus which the George Hotel (a small third rate
inn, albeit the best in Appleton) usually sends down to meet the
afternoon train from London. He is a tall soldierly looking person, with
bright dark eyes, and a brisk imperative manner which ensures a certain
amount of attention even from the surly landlord.
But when, instead of demanding luncheon, or any creature comforts for
himself, the traveller orders a "dog-cart, or any sort of trap with a
good horse," to take him to Mr. Chetwynd's house, five miles distant,
the host demurs.
"Impossible! The omnibus horse is the only one roughed, and he has been
out twice to-day already. Besides there is likely to be a heavy fall of
snow before night: even if a horse and trap could get to Edenhurst there
would be no possibility of getting back before night-fall--mine host is
very sorry to disoblige the gentleman, but it is quite out of the
question."
The young man, who is evidently not accustomed to stolid opposition,
begins to chafe, and his dark eyes give an angry flash. However he
forces himself to speak quietly and persuasively, and even descends to
bribery, in his anxiety to spend his Christmas at Edenhurst.
Still the landlord remains obdurate, the fact that he has a big
commercial dinner impending at five o'clock making him the less inclined
to spare any of his men.
"Well, hang it all!" cries the young man impatiently, "then I declare
I'll get there on my own legs. I can carry my bag," swinging it stoutly
over his shoulder as he speaks, "and you must find some means of sending
the other things over to-morrow morning at latest. It would be too
tantalizing," he adds to himself, "after coming two thousand miles to
see the little woman, if we could not spend our Christmas Eve together
after all."
And turning a deaf ear to the landlord's remonstrances and prophesies of
evil, he sets forth briskly on the road, well-known to him although
untrodden for two long years. "Dear little soul," he is saying to
himself as he strides through the snow, "what a surprise it'll be to
her! I am half sorry now I did not write--perhaps she'll be
startled--but I don't believe in sudden joy hurting anyone. I wonder if
she'll be altered--I hope not--the little face couldn't be sweeter than
it was. And Herbert Chetwynd is a rare good fellow--what a welcome I
shall get from him and his kindhearted wife--it's almost worth toiling
and broiling for two years in India to come home for such a Christmas. I
wonder if that jolly pickle Bertie is much grown! Capital little
companion he used to be I remember. How far have I come? Oh! just past
the second milestone--the snow is getting plaguy deep and I can hardly
see ten yards ahead--I can't say it is pleasant travelling--how I shall
appreciate the splendid fire in the big hall fire-place at Edenhurst.
They will be burning the Yule-log for Christmas. How I shall enjoy
taking up all the old home customs once more. I wonder if the Waits go
round now? What a brute I used to feel, lying snug in bed and listening
to the poor little shivering mortals singing outside in the frosty
morning air, almost before it was light--but I believe Herbert's wife
and Milly always took care that they had a warm breakfast and a toast at
the kitchen fire afterwards--but hulloa! I say, what little dog are you,
out alone in the snow in this lonely part of the road? Lost your master,
have you, poor little beggar? Never mind--you had better follow me home
to Edenhurst for to-night--they wouldn't refuse a welcome even to a
stray dog on Christmas Eve. I say, you are very pressing in your
attentions my friend--I'm afraid you are on a wrong tack, sniffing and
prancing around me--I'm not your master nor have I the honor of that
gentleman's acquaintance, unless--by Jove, if it isn't little
Nettle--the dog I gave Mildred when I went to India. What can she be
doing out here alone? And what does she want me to do I wonder?" as the
terrier, delighted at the sudden recognition dances round him more
energetically than ever, catches his hand and the skirts of his coat
gently in her teeth, then runs on a little way ahead, looking back to
see if he is following. "Lead on--I'll follow thee--that seems to be
what you want me to say, eh, little Nettle? All right there!" and the
traveller's two long legs contrive to make quite as rapid progress along
the road as the terrier's four short ones especially as the poor little
animal occasionally lights on a snowy heap softer and deeper than the
rest and is nearly lost to sight altogether for some seconds.
Presently however, in spite of all obstacles she scurries on ahead, and
stops short with a joyful self-satisfied bark, in front of a dark object
which is half sitting, half lying in a bed of partially melted snow
under the hedge--an object which upon closer inspection proves to be a
slight curly-headed boy, clad in heather-colored jacket and
knicker-bockers. His cap has fallen off, and his eyes are nearly closed,
as he leans back on his cold couch, with an expression of half-conscious
suffering on his young face.
"Come, this won't do!" exclaims the traveller in a tone of no small
surprise and concern. "I say, young sir, have you forgotten that this is
December, and not exactly the season for enjoying life in gypsy
fashion?"
The boy's eyes open dreamily and scan the keen brown moustached face
which is bending over him, but he neither moves nor makes any response.
The traveller lays a hand on his shoulder and speaks again, somewhat
more peremptorily.
"I say, young one, get up--do you hear? Do you want to get frozen to
death?"
If there is some roughness in the tone, there is none in the manner and
gesture with which dropping on one knee in the snow, the traveller
proceeds to chafe the cold nerveless hand, which, in answer to this
appeal, the boy slowly tries to lift. He points to his left foot which
is stretched out in an uncomfortable twisted attitude, and his new
friend is not long in discovering that a sprained ankle is the cause of
the mischief.
A serviceable many-bladed knife is quickly produced, and the boot
dexterously slit open, to the instant relief of the injured limb, which
is much swollen.
The boy gives a gasp of satisfaction, and murmurs "Thank you," as he
makes a still unsuccessful effort to scramble to his feet.
Illustration: IT IS SNOWING HEAVILY AS ALICE TRIPS BACK TO THE CHURCH.
"Take care--let me give you a hand. Poor little chap--" as the
patient collapses again, "here, have a pull at this," taking a
restorative from a medicine case in an inner pocket; "that's
right--you'll be able to tell me all about it presently. Nettle, little
lass, it's a pity you can't speak, isn't it?"
"How do you know the dog's name?" the boy inquires, now almost roused
into curiosity.
"How do I know it? Why because she belonged to me for six months before
I went to India, and then I gave her to the lady who I hope is to be my
wife now I've come back."
"What--are you Cecil Gordon?"
"The same--at your service 'Cousin Cis,' as your little sister used to
call me, if, as I suppose, you are my old playfellow Bertie. Two years
have made a difference in your size, my lad--and this snow gave your
face a blue sort of look which prevented my knowing you at first. And
now tell me what pranks have you been playing to get into such a
plight?"
"I rode Grey Plover to Appleton this afternoon to get--some things the
girls wanted--and the snow-storm came on heavily--and it got horribly
dark as you see--and somehow we stumbled into a snow-drift--I'd marked
the bad places as I came and thought I could keep clear of them--but the
darkness misled me, and the snow got into my eyes. We rolled over
together--and my foot caught in the stirrup and came out with an awful
wrench--but it's ever so much better since you cut the boot open."
"And then I suppose, the pony made off?"
"Yes, I believe so. I felt awfully sick when I got up, but I managed to
crawl out of the drift, for I'd just sense enough left to mind being
smothered. I don't suppose I could have lain here very long when you
came, or I should have been frozen."
"Well the great thing will be to get you home as soon as may be--but the
snow is getting so deep that it won't be very pleasant travelling. Can
you bear to put that foot to the ground? No? Then don't try--my legs
must do duty for two."
"Oh! I'm too heavy--you'll never be able to carry me, especially through
the snow."
"Nonsense! If you begin making difficulties I shall have to treat you
as one of our fellows (so the story goes) did the wounded sergeant in
Zululand."
"Oh what was that?"
"Why the enemy were close upon them, and B---- (that was the officer)
was bent upon rescuing the sergeant of his troops who was wounded and
helpless, and whose own horse had been killed. So he told him to get up
behind on _his_ horse--and the sergeant refused, and told B---- to save
himself and leave him to perish, and B---- answered in peremptory
fashion, 'If you don't obey orders at once, I shall punch your head!'"
"Don't punch mine to-day," says Bertie with a rather feeble laugh. "It
feels so queer and top-heavy. I'll give you leave to try as soon as I'm
all right again."
"All right. But now about this getting home? Here! you take the bag, and
I'll carry _you_. Will you ride in ordinary pick-a-back fashion, or as
I've seen soldiers do at what they call 'chummy races' lengthwise across
their bearer's shoulders?"
Bertie prefers the former method, and with some little difficulty is
hoisted into the required position.
"How are they all at home?" asks Captain Gordon, after they have
advanced some little way in silence.
"Very well--and very jolly--only to-day Cousin Milly was out of spirits,
because"--
"Well what?" The tone is sharp and impatient.
"Because you hadn't written, and she did so want a letter for Christmas.
And I thought there might be one by the afternoon post--they do come
then sometimes."
"And that was the reason for your taking that crazy ride through the
snow? My dear little fellow," and the brisk voice is very kind and
gentle now, "I am sorry to have been the cause of all this trouble."
"Oh! never mind--it was partly too to get Alice the candles she was
bothering about for the Christmas Tree.--By-the-bye, I hope they've not
fallen out of my pocket--no, here they are, all right."
"I'm afraid you found no letter at the post-office after all. You see
the orders for home came to us rather suddenly, and when I found I could
be in England as soon as a letter could reach, I didn't write. I am so
sorry it happened so!"
"You had lots of real fighting among the Afghans, hadn't you?"
"Yes--I'll tell you about it some day. Just now I want my breath for
something more than talking. How deep the snow is between these high
hedges!"
"Yes--if only we could get over into the fields it would be better--and
there is a short cut too."
"Can we find it?"
"I'll try--but my head is so stupid somehow--don't I hear some one
whistling behind us?"
As Bertie speaks a young laboring man comes up to them, looks with some
surprise at the pair, and answers with a surly grunt to Captain Gordon's
inquiry as to the nearest way to Edenhurst.
"Why Jack, you can show us!" cries Bertie impatiently.
"There's a stile somewhere that leads right past your mother's cottage,
and then we can get across Higgins' fields."
"If there is a cottage I shall be glad of five minutes' rest by the
fire-side," says Cecil who is beginning to get decidedly "blown."
"I was just thinking what an awfully lonely road this was."
"Jack Brown is a surly fellow," whispers Bertie in his ear, but not so
low but that the man catches the last words.
"Surly! And who wouldn't be, young master, I'd like to know, in my
place? Didn't the Squire have me up for poaching, and didn't I get three
weeks in jail along of snaring a few worthless pheasants? Much he or
anyone would have cared if my old mother had starved the while!"