A CHRISTMAS EVE ADVENTURE.
MUCH to the satisfaction of everyone, the dry, cold weather continued
for several days. After three nights' frost, the ice on the pond in
the lower meadow was pronounced really firm enough to skate upon, and
the village lads made a splendid slide from one side to the other. Bob
Wills, who had never felt any ill effects from his accident, proved an
adept in the art of sliding, and under his instructions, Rupert soon
became as proficient as himself. Nellie would have liked to join the
boys and learn to slide, too, but she was torn two ways, as there were
the church and the schoolroom to be decorated; and finally she decided
in favour of her mother and sister's society, and spent long hours in
making paper roses, and twining festoons of holly and evergreens.
Great excitement reigned in the village as twilight gathered on the
afternoon previous to Christmas Day. And five o'clock found the
schoolroom a scene of festivity, full as it was of men, women, and
children seated at the long, narrow tables which intersected the room,
partaking of a substantial tea. Nearly every one in the parish was
there, including the Vicar, a middle-aged bachelor, who, with the
family from Haldon Hall, busied himself in waiting on Mr. Coker's
guests. The meal was nearly over when it suddenly dawned upon Lilian
that she had not come across Nannie Davey, and she inquired of her
mother if the old woman was present.
"I have not seen her," was the reply. "No, I do not think she is here;
perhaps she has changed her mind about coming."
"Nannie meant to come, ma'am," said a girl who had overheard Lilian's
question and Mrs. Coker's answer, "but her rheumatism is that bad
to-day she daren't stir outdoors. She's very disappointed, she told me
so herself; I live next door to her, ma'am."
"Oh, how sorry I am she cannot come!" Lilian cried. "Mother, don't you
think I might take her some bread and cream, and plum cake? Oh, do let
me!"
"You will miss the magic-lantern—" Mrs. Coker was commencing, when the
little girl interposed eagerly:
"Oh, mother, I shall not mind that! It is not as if I could see!"
"You shall do as you wish, my dear; but get either Rupert or Bob Wills
to go with you."
Mrs. Coker packed a basket full of good things, and handed it
to Lilian. Then the little girl, basket in hand, passed between
the crowded tables in the direction of the door. On her way she
encountered, in turn, Rupert and Bob, to each of whom she explained
where she was going, and asked his escort to Nannie's door, but Rupert
said: "Oh, Bob will go with you!" And Bob said: "I wouldn't bother
about the old woman, if I were you. I don't want to miss the fun."
"How selfish they are!" she thought. "Never mind, I'll go by myself."
A minute later, she was crossing the Green. It was quite dark now, for
great banks of heavy snow-clouds were gathering overhead; but darkness
and light were alike to Lilian, and she made her way straight to Nannie
Davey's cottage, which was at the far end of the waste ground. On
knocking at the door, Nannie's voice, querulous in tone, bade her come
in.
The old woman was surprised and delighted at the sight of her visitor.
"And you've left them all in the midst of their festivity to bring
these dainties to me!" she exclaimed, as the little girl placed the
contents of her basket on the table.
"I wanted to come," Lilian answered earnestly. "It seemed so hard that
you should be spending Christmas Eve by yourself. They are going to
have the magic-lantern now, and you know that will be no loss to me.
I'm so sorry you cannot join us to-night."
"I meant to be with you, dearie, but I'm dreadful bad; the rheumatism
is like red-hot needles running into all my joints, and 'tis agony to
move."
"Oh, poor soul!" said the child sympathetically. "I am so very sorry
you suffer so much. You'll try to eat some of these nice things I've
brought you, won't you? The cake is very good; our cook made it."
"It looks delicious," said the old woman, stretching out a knotted
hand and helping herself to a slice. "Yes, it's the best cake I ever
tasted," she declared, smacking her lips approvingly.
Pitying Nannie's lonely, suffering condition, Lilian remained talking
to her longer than she had intended, and when at last she said good-bye
to her and left the cottage, she found it was snowing fast.
However, she set out in the direction of the schoolroom; but she had
taken only a few steps across the green when a sudden gust of wind
caught her, and it was all she could do to keep her feet; and when the
gust had passed, she felt so confused that she could not tell which
way she had been going. She walked on, and at last came to a full stop
as she realised she had left the Green for the road, and had actually
turned her back on the village.
"How stupid of me!" she thought in vexation. "The wind must have
twisted me round. Well, all I've to do now is to go back. Why, here's
the gateway leading to the pathfields! How Nellie and Rupert will laugh
when I tell them how far I wandered out of my way."
Suddenly she heard men's footsteps coming towards her, and unknown
voices. To whom could they belong? she wondered. She was not in the
least timid, but she was rather shy, and it occurred to her that
she might be asked to account for her presence there alone in the
snowstorm; so she crept under the shelter of the hedge, and waited for
the strangers to pass, shivering as she drew her shawl close around her
shoulders.
"You're sure there'll only be the old fellow to deal with?" questioned
a man's voice, in a hoarse whisper, as the footsteps drew near.
"Quite sure," was the answer. "The farmer and all his household are
in the schoolroom with the rest of the parish. There'll be no one to
interfere with our little game after we've settled with the old chap;
he's feeble with age, and won't give us any trouble. We'll knock at the
door, and old Jeffry—as I've learnt he's called—will open it, then I'll
manage him, whilst you set to work and—"
Lilian lost the end of the sentence; but a second later the first voice
remarked:
"There's a surly brute of a sheep-dog about the place, so we must be
cautious. The farmer's considered stocky; I wonder if he keeps much
money in the house."
The footsteps and voices died away as their owners, having passed
Lilian unnoticed in the blinding snow, proceeded in the direction of
Westhill.
The little girl was horrified at what she had overheard. She shuddered
at the thought that the unsuspecting caretaker would most probably open
the door to two desperate characters, and, it might be, meet his death
at their hands. What should she do? If she returned to the schoolroom
with her tale, perhaps Jeffry would be dead before help could be sent
to him. No, she must save him herself. She knew the short cut to
Westhill, through the fields, and could reach the farm long before any
one could do so by road.
To think was to act with Lilian; so, without waiting to consider the
matter further, she scrambled over the gate into the field beyond, and
ran as fast as she possibly could along the path, heedless alike of
the driving snow and the cutting wind. Panting and almost exhausted,
ten minutes later, she was hurrying through the orchard into the yard
at Westhill. A low growl greeted her ears as she neared the house, and
she called softly: "Wolf, Wolf," whereupon the sheep-dog, recognising
her voice, changed his tone to a whine of pleasure, and, coming to her
side, licked her hand.
Lilian rang the door-bell violently, and almost immediately she
heard shuffling footsteps inside the door; and her heart beat with
thankfulness as a voice inquired who was there.
"It is I—Lilian Coker. Let me in at once. Be quick, oh, please be
quick!"
The door was opened then, and Lilian, followed by the sheep-dog,
stumbled, almost done up with running so fast, across the threshold.
"Shut the door again, Jeffry!" she cried, as the old man began to
utter exclamations of amazement. "Bolt it! Mind you bolt it! There are
thieves about—coming here! Have you put up the chain? Yes. Oh, Jeffry,
thank God I am in time!" And she burst into a flood of tears.
When she was somewhat more composed, she repeated to the old man the
scraps of conversation she had overheard, and explained how she had
run all the way to Westhill through the pathfields on his account. He
listened with growing wonderment; and when the little girl had finished
her tale, he made her sit down by the kitchen fire and take off her wet
shoes, whilst he bustled about and lit all the lamps and candles he
could lay hands on, placing them in the various rooms.
"They won't find us in darkness now," he chuckled. "It'll be a bit of
a disappointment to them to see the house lit up—they'll hardly dare
break in. You're a brave little maid, Miss Lilian!"
[Illustration: Lilian, followed by the sheep-dog, stumbled . . . across
the threshold.]
"Oh, no, I'm not!" she replied. She was shaking like an aspen leaf now,
and straining her ears, listening for the faintest sound out-of-doors.
Wolf seated himself by her side, and rested his rough head on her knee.
"I'm afraid mother will be anxious about me," she said, with a sigh,
"but there only seemed one thing for me to do, to come here and warn
you, Jeffry."
"And I am very grateful to you, Miss Lilian," said the old man
fervently. "I wonder you weren't too timid to come through the
pathfields in such a snowstorm alone. What's that?" he asked, lowering
his voice to a whisper, as she lifted a warning hand.
"They're in the yard," Lilian whispered. "I heard them."
Wolf raised his head from her knee as she spoke, then, with a fierce
growl, he sprang snarling towards the door. Presently his excitement
died away, and he returned to his previous position beside the fire.
"They've made off, you may depend," said Old Jeffrey, drawing a deep
sigh of relief, "they fancy they've made a mistake, and that there's
something going on in the house. We shall have no robbers breaking in
here to-night now. How I should like to know who the rogues are! You
didn't recognise their voices, Miss Lilian?"
"No, I'm certain I never heard them in my life before."
The old man warmed some milk, which he insisted upon Lilian's drinking.
She was troubled in mind at the thought of the anxiety which her
absence from the schoolroom was doubtless causing her parents; but, at
the same time, she was conscious she had done what was right under the
circumstances. By-and-by, a feeling of intense lassitude crept over
her, and, worn out with excitement and fatigue, she fell asleep.