"Thrice welcome may such seasons be,
But welcome too the common way,
The lowly duties of the day."
There was of course much to do. Steadfast visited his hoard and took
from thence enough to purchase churn, spinning wheel, and the few tools
that he most needed; but it was not soon that Patience could sit down to
spin. That must be for the winter, and their only chance of light was in
making candles.
Rusha could gather the green rushes, though she could not peel them
without breaking them; and Patience had to take them out of her hands
and herself strip the white pith so that only one ribbon of green was
left to support it.
The sheep, excepting a few old ewes, were always sold or killed before
the winter, and by Blane's advice, Stead kept only three. The butcher
Oates took some of the others, and helped Stead to dispose of four more
in the market. Two were killed at different intervals for home use, but
only a very small part was eaten fresh, as a wonderful Sunday treat,
the rest was either disposed of among the neighbours, who took it in
exchange for food of other kinds; or else was salted and dried for the
winter's fare, laid up in bran in two great crocks which Stead had been
forced to purchase, and which with planks from the half-burnt house laid
over them served by turns as tables or seats. The fat was melted up in
Patience's great kettle, and the rushes dipped in it over and over again
till they had such a coating of grease as would enable them to be burnt
in the old horn lantern which had fortunately been in the stable and
escaped the fire.
Kind neighbours helped Stead to cut and stack his hay, and his little
field of barley. All the grass he could cut on the banks he also saved
for the animals' winter food, and a few turnips, but these were rare and
uncommon articles only used by the most advanced farmers, and his father
had only lately begun to grow them, nor had potatoes become known except
in the gardens of the curious.
The vexation was that all the manor was called to give their three days'
labour to Lady Elmwood's crops just as all their own were cut, and as,
of course, Master Brown had chosen the finest weather, every one went
in fear and trembling for their own, and Oates and others grumbled so
bitterly at having to work without wage, that Blane asked if they called
their own houses and land nothing.
There was fresh grumbling too that the food sent out to the labourers in
the field was not as it used to be, good beef and mutton, but only bread
and very hard cheese, and bowls of hasty pudding, with thin, sour small
beer to wash it down. Oates growled and vowed he would never come again
to be so scurvily used; and perhaps no one guessed that my lady was far
more impoverished than her tenants, and had a hard matter to supply even
such fare as this.
Happily the weather lasted good long enough to save the Kentons' little
crop, though there was a sad remembrance of the old times, when the
church bell gave the signal at sunrise for all the harvesters to come to
church for the brief service, and then to start fair in their gleaning.
The bell did still ring, but there were no prayers. The vicar had never
come back, and it was reported that he had been sent to the plantations
in America. There was no service on Sunday nearer than Bristol. It
was the churchwardens' business to find a minister, and of these, poor
Kenton was dead, and the other, Master Cliffe, was not likely to do
anything that might put the parish to expense.
Goodman Blane, and some of the other more seriously minded folk used to
walk into Bristol to church when the weather was tolerably fine. If it
were wet, the little stream used to flood the lower valley so that
it was not possible to get across. Steadfast was generally one of the
party. Patience could not go, as it was too far for Rusha to walk, or
for the baby to be carried.
Once, seeing how much she wished to go again to church, Stead undertook
to mind the children, the cattle, and the dinner in her place; but
what work he found it! When he tried to slice the onions for the broth,
little Ben toddled off, and had to be caught lest he should tumble into
the river. Then Rusha got hold of the knife, cut her hand, and rolled it
up in her Sunday frock, and Steadfast, thinking he had got a small bit
of rag, tied it up in Patience's round cap, but that he did not know
till afterwards, only that baby had got out again, and after some search
was found asleep cuddled up close to the old sow. And so it went on,
till poor Steadfast felt as if he had never spent so long a day. As to
reading his Bible and Prayer-book, it was quite impossible, and he never
had so much respect for Patience before as when he found what she did
every day without seeming to think anything of it.
She did not get home till after dark, but the Blanes had taken her to
rest at the friends with whom they spent the time between services, and
they had given her a good meal.
"Somehow," said Patience, "everybody seems kinder than they used to be
before the fighting began--and the parsons said the prayers as if they
had more heart in them."
Patience was quite right. These times of danger were making everyone
draw nearer together, and look up more heartily to Him in Whom was there
true help.
But winter was coming on and bringing bad times for the poor children
in their narrow valley, so close to the water. It was not a very cold
season, but it was almost worse, for it was very wet. The little brook
swelled, turned muddy yellow, and came rushing and tumbling along, far
outside its banks, so that Patience wondered whether there could be any
danger of its coming up to their hut and perhaps drowning them.
"I think there is no fear," said Steadfast. "You see this house has been
here from old times and never got washed away."
"It wouldn't wash away very easily," said Patience, "I wish we were in
one of the holes up there."
"If it looks like danger we might get up," said Steadfast, and to please
her he cleared a path to a freshly discovered cave a little lower down
the stream, but so high up on the rocky sides of the ravine as to be
safe from the water.
Once Patience, left at home watching the rushing of the stream, became
so frightened that she actually took the children up there, and set
Rusha to hold the baby while she dragged up some sheepskins and some
food.
Steadfast coming home asked what she was about and laughed at her,
showing her, by the marks on the trees, that the flood was already going
down. Such alarms came seldom, but the constant damp was worse. Happily
it was always possible to keep up a fire, wood and turf peat was
plentiful and could be had for the cutting and carrying, and though the
smoke made their eyes tingle, perhaps it hindered the damp from hurting
them, when all the walls wept, in spite of the reed mats which they had
woven and hung over them. And then it was so dark, Patience's rushes did
not give light enough to see to do anything by them even when they did
not get blown out, and when the sun had set there was nothing for it,
but as soon as the few cattle had been foddered in their shed and cave,
to draw the mat and sheepskins that made a curtain by way of door,
fasten it down with a stone, share with dog and cat the supper of broth,
or milk, or porridge which Patience had cooked, and then lie down on
the beds of dried leaves stuffed into sacking, drawing over them the
blankets and cloaks that had happily been saved in the chest, and
nestling on either side of the fire, which, if well managed, would
smoulder on for hours. There the two elder ones would teach Rusha her
catechism and tell old stories, and croon over old rhymes till both the
little ones were asleep, and then would hold counsel on their affairs,
settle how to husband their small stock of money, consider how soon it
would be expedient to finish their store of salted mutton and pork to
keep them from being spoilt by damp, and wonder when their hens would
begin to lay.
It could hardly be a merry Christmas for the poor children, though they
did stick holly in every chink where it would go, but there were not
many berries that year, and as Rusha said, "there were only thorns."
Steadfast walked to Bristol through slush and mire and rain, not even
Smith Blane went with him, deeming the weather too bad, and thinking,
perhaps, rather over much of the goose at home.
Bristol people were keeping Christmas with all their might, making the
more noise and revelry because the Parliament had forbidden the feast to
be observed at all. It was easy to tell who was for the King and who for
the Parliament, for there were bushes of holly, mistletoe, and ivy, at
all the Royalist doors and windows, and from many came the savoury steam
of roast beef or goose, while the other houses were shut up as close as
possible and looked sad and grim.
All the bells of all the churches were ringing, and everybody seemed to
be trooping into them. As Steadfast was borne along by the throng, there
was a pause, and a boy of his own age with a large hat and long feather,
beneath which could be seen curls of jet-black hair, walked at the head
of a party of gentlemen. Everyone in the crowd uncovered and there was
a vehement outcry of "God save the King! God save the Prince of Wales!"
Everyone thronged after him, and Steadfast had a hard struggle to
squeeze into the Cathedral, and then had to stand all the time with
his back against a pillar, for there was not even room to kneel down at
first.
There was no organ, but the choir men and boys had rallied there, and
led the Psalms which went up very loudly and heartily. Then the Dean
went up into the pulpit and preached about peace and goodwill to men,
and how all ought to do all in their power to bring those blessed gifts
back again. A good many people dropped off during the sermon, and more
after it, but Steadfast remained. He had never been able to come to the
Communion feast since the evil times had begun, and he had thought much
about it on his lonely walk, and knew that it was the way to be helped
through the hard life he was living.
When all was over he felt very peaceful, but so hungry and tired with
standing and kneeling so long after his walk, that he was glad to lean
against the wall and take out the piece of bread that Patience had put
in his wallet.
Presently a step came near, and from under a round velvet skull-cap a
kind old face looked at him which he knew to be that of the Dean.
"Is that all your Christmas meal, my good boy?" he asked.
"I shall have something for supper, thank your reverence," replied
Steadfast, taking off his leathern cap.
"Well, mayhap you could away with something more," said the Dean. "Come
with me."
And as Steadfast obeyed, he asked farther, "What is your name, my child?
I know your face in church, but not in town."
"No, sir, I do not live here. I am Steadfast Kenton, and I am from
Elmwood, but we have no prayers nor sermon there since they took the
parson away."
"Ah! good Master Holworth! Alas! my child, I fear you will scarce see
him back again till the King be in London once more, which Heaven grant.
And, meantime, Sir George Elmwood being patron, none can be intruded
into his room. It is a sore case, and I fear me the case of many a
parish besides."
Steadfast was so much moved by the good Dean's kindness as to begin to
consider whether it would be betraying the trust to consult him about
that strange treasure in the cave, but the lad was never quick of
thought, and before he could decide one of the canons joined the Dean,
and presently going up the steps to the great hall of the Deanery,
Steadfast saw long tables spread with snowy napkins, trenchers laid all
round, and benches on which a numerous throng were seating themselves,
mostly old people and little children, looking very poor and ragged.
Steadfast held himself to be a yeoman in a small way, and somewhat above
a Christmas feast with the poor, but the Dean's kindness was enough to
make him put away his pride, and then there was such a delicious steam
coming up from the buttery hatch as was enough to melt away all nonsense
of that sort from a hungry lad.
Grand joints of beef came up in clouds of vapour, and plum puddings
smoked in their rear, to be eaten with them, after the fashion of these
days, when of summer vegetables there were few, and of winter vegetables
none. The choirmen and boys, indeed all the Cathedral clergy who were
unmarried, were dining there too, but the Dean and his wife waited on
the table where the poorest were. Horns of ale were served to everyone,
and then came big mince pies. Steadfast felt a great longing to take
his home to his sisters, but he was ashamed to do it, even though he saw
that it was permissible, they were such beggarly-looking folks who set
the example.
However, the Dean's wife came up to him with a pleasant smile and asked
if he had no appetite or if he were thinking of someone at home, and
when he answered, she kindly undertook to lend him a basket, for which
he might call after evensong, and in the basket were also afterwards
found some slices of the beef and a fine large cake.
Then the young Prince and his suite came in, and he stood at the end of
the hall, smiling and looking amused as everyone's cup was filled with
wine--such wine as the Roundhead captains had left, and the Dean at the
head of the table gave out the health of his most sacred Majesty King
Charles, might God bless him, and confound all his enemies! The Prince
bared his black shining locks and drank, and there was a deep Amen,
and then a hurrah enough to rend the old vaulted ceiling; and equally
enthusiastically was the Prince's health afterwards drunk.
Stead heard the servants saying that such a meal had been a costly
matter, but that the good Dean would have it so in order that one more
true merry Christmas should be remembered in Bristol.