A week before Christmas, Aunt Jean wrote to Elizabeth, inviting her
and Alberta and me to eat our Christmas dinner at Monkshead. We
accepted with delight. Aunt Jean and Uncle Norman were delightful
people, and we knew we should have a jolly time at their house.
Besides, we wanted to see Monkshead, where Father had lived in his
boyhood, and the old Young homestead where he had been born and
brought up and where Uncle William still lived. Father never said much
about it, but we knew he loved it very dearly, and we had always
greatly desired to get at least a glimpse of what Alberta liked to
call "our ancestral halls."
Since Monkshead was only sixty miles away, and Uncle William lived
there as aforesaid, it may be pertinently asked what there was to
prevent us from visiting it and the homestead as often as we wished.
We answer promptly: the family feud.
Father and Uncle William were on bad terms, or rather on no terms at
all, and had been ever since we could remember. After Grandfather
Young's death there had been a wretched quarrel over the property.
Father always said that he had been as much to blame as Uncle William,
but Great-aunt Emily told us that Uncle William had been by far the
most to blame, and that he had behaved scandalously to Father.
Moreover, she said that Father had gone to him when cooling-down time
came, apologized for what he had said, and asked Uncle William to be
friends again; and that William, simply turned his back on Father and
walked into the house without saying a word, but, as Great-aunt Emily
said, with the Young temper sticking out of every kink and curve of
his figure. Great-aunt Emily is our aunt on Mother's side, and she
does not like any of the Youngs except Father and Uncle Norman.
This was why we had never visited Monkshead. We had never seen Uncle
William, and we always thought of him as a sort of ogre when we
thought of him at all. When we were children, our old nurse, Margaret
Hannah, used to frighten us into good behaviour by saying ominously,
"If you 'uns aint good your Uncle William'll cotch you."
What he would do to us when he "cotched" us she never specified,
probably reasoning that the unknown was always more terrible than the
known. My private opinion in those days was that he would boil us in
oil and pick our bones.
Uncle Norman and Aunt Jean had been living out west for years. Three
months before this Christmas they had come east, bought a house in
Monkshead, and settled there. They had been down to see us, and Father
and Mother and the boys had been up to see them, but we three girls
had not; so we were pleasantly excited at the thought of spending
Christmas there.
Christmas morning was fine, white as a pearl and clear as a diamond.
We had to go by the seven o'clock train, since there was no other
before eleven, and we reached Monkshead at eight-thirty.
When we stepped from the train the stationmaster asked us if we were
the three Miss Youngs. Alberta pleaded guilty, and he said, "Well,
here's a letter for you then."
We took the letter and went into the waiting room with sundry
misgivings. What had happened? Were Uncle Norman and Aunt Jean
quarantined for scarlet fever, or had burglars raided the pantry and
carried off the Christmas supplies? Elizabeth opened and read the
letter aloud. It was from Aunt Jean to the following effect:
DEAR GIRLS: I am so sorry to disappoint you, but I cannot help
it. Word has come from Streatham that my sister has met with a
serious accident and is in a very critical condition. Your
uncle and I must go to Streatham immediately and are leaving
on the eight o'clock express. I know you have started before
this, so there is no use in telegraphing. We want you to go
right to the house and make yourself at home. You will find
the key under the kitchen doorstep, and the dinner in the
pantry all ready to cook. There are two mince pies on the
third shelf, and the plum pudding only needs to be warmed up.
You will find a little Christmas remembrance for each of you
on the dining-room table. I hope you will make as merry as you
possibly can and we will have you down again as soon as we
come back.
Your hurried and affectionate,
AUNT JEAN
We looked at each other somewhat dolefully. But, as Alberta pointed
out, we might as well make the best of it, since there was no way of
getting home before the five o'clock train. So we trailed out to the
stationmaster, and asked him limply if he could direct us to Mr.
Norman Young's house.
He was a rather grumpy individual, very busy with pencil and notebook
over some freight; but he favoured us with his attention long enough
to point with his pencil and say jerkily, "Young's? See that red house
on the hill? That's it."
The red house was about a quarter of a mile from the station, and we
saw it plainly. Accordingly, to the red house we betook ourselves. On
nearer view it proved to be a trim, handsome place, with nice grounds
and very fine old trees.
We found the key under the kitchen doorstep and went in. The fire was
black out, and somehow things wore a more cheerless look than I had
expected to find. I may as well admit that we marched into the dining
room first of all, to find our presents.
There were three parcels, two very small and one pretty big, lying on
the table, but when we came to look for names there were none.
"Evidently Aunt Jean, in her hurry and excitement, forgot to label
them," said Elizabeth. "Let us open them. We may be able to guess from
the contents which belongs to whom."
I must say we were surprised when we opened those parcels. "We had
known that Aunt Jean's gifts would be nice, but we had not expected
anything like this. There was a magnificent stone marten collar, a
dear little gold watch and pearl chatelaine, and a gold chain bracelet
set with turquoises.
"The collar must be for you, Elizabeth, because Mary and I have one
already, and Aunt Jean knows it," said Alberta; "the watch must be for
you, Mary, because I have one; and by the process of exhaustion the
bracelet must be for me. Well, they are all perfectly sweet."
Elizabeth put on her collar and paraded in front of the sideboard
mirror. It was so dusty she had to take her handkerchief and wipe it
before she could see herself properly. Everything in the room was
equally dusty. As for the lace curtains, they looked as if they hadn't
been washed for years, and one of them had a long ragged hole in it. I
couldn't help feeling secretly surprised, for Aunt Jean had the
reputation of being a perfect housekeeper. However, I didn't say
anything, and neither did the other girls. Mother had always impressed
upon us that it was the height of bad manners to criticize anything we
might not like in a house where we were guests.
"Well, let's see about dinner," said Alberta, practically, snapping
her bracelet on her wrist and admiring the effect.
We went to the kitchen, where Elizabeth proceeded to light the fire,
that being one of her specialties, while Alberta and I explored the
pantry. We found the dinner supplies laid out as Aunt Jean had
explained. There was a nice fat turkey all stuffed, and vegetables
galore. The mince pies were in their place, but they were almost the
only things about which that could be truthfully said, for the
disorder of that pantry was enough to give a tidy person nightmares
for a month. "I never in all my life saw--" began Alberta, and then
stopped short, evidently remembering Mother's teaching.
"Where is the plum pudding?" said I, to turn the conversation into
safer channels.
It was nowhere to be seen, so we concluded it must be in the cellar.
But we found the cellar door padlocked good and fast.
"Never mind," said Elizabeth. "You know none of us really likes plum
pudding. We only eat it because it is the proper traditional dessert.
The mince pies will suit us better."
We hurried the turkey into the oven, and soon everything was going
merrily. We had lots of fun getting up that dinner, and we made
ourselves perfectly at home, as Aunt Jean had commanded. We kindled a
fire in the dining room and dusted everything in sight. We couldn't
find anything remotely resembling a duster, so we used our
handkerchiefs. When we got through, the room looked like something, for
the furnishings were really very handsome, but our handkerchiefs--well!
Then we set the table with all the nice dishes we could find. There
was only one long tablecloth in the sideboard drawer, and there were
three holes in it, but we covered them with dishes and put a little
potted palm in the middle for a centrepiece. At one o'clock dinner was
ready for us and we for it. Very nice that table looked, too, as we
sat down to it.
Just as Alberta was about to spear the turkey with a fork and begin
carving, that being one of _her_ specialties, the kitchen door opened
and somebody walked in. Before we could move, a big, handsome,
bewhiskered man in a fur coat appeared in the dining-room doorway.
I wasn't frightened. He seemed quite respectable, I thought, and I
supposed he was some intimate friend of Uncle Norman's. I rose
politely and said, "Good day."
You never saw such an expression of amazement as was on that poor
man's face. He looked from me to Alberta and from Alberta to Elizabeth
and from Elizabeth to me again as if he doubted the evidence of his
eyes.
"Mr. and Mrs. Norman Young are not at home," I explained, pitying him.
"They went to Streatham this morning because Mrs. Young's sister is
very ill."
"What does all this mean?" said the big man gruffly. "This isn't
Norman Young's house ... it is mine. I'm William Young. Who are you?
And what are you doing here?"
I fell back into my chair, speechless. My very first impulse was to
put up my hand and cover the gold watch. Alberta had dropped the
carving knife and was trying desperately to get the gold bracelet off
under the table. In a flash we had realized our mistake and its
awfulness. As for me, I felt positively frightened; Margaret Hannah's
warnings of old had left an ineffaceable impression.
Elizabeth rose to the occasion. Rising to the occasion is another of
Elizabeth's specialties. Besides, she was not hampered by the tingling
consciousness that she was wearing a gift that had not been intended
for her.
"We have made a mistake, I fear," she said, with a dignity which I
appreciated even in my panic, "and we are very sorry for it. We were
invited to spend Christmas with Mr. and Mrs. Norman Young. When we got
off the train we were given a letter from them stating that they were
summoned away but telling us to go to their house and make ourselves
at home. The stationmaster told us that this was the house, so we came
here. We have never been in Monkshead, so we did not know the
difference. Please pardon us."
I had got off the watch by this time and laid it on the table,
unobserved, as I thought. Alberta, not having the key of the
bracelet, had not been able to get it off, and she sat there crimson
with shame. As for Uncle William, there was positively a twinkle in
his eye. He did not look in the least ogreish.
"Well, it has been quite a fortunate mistake for me," he said. "I came
home expecting to find a cold house and a raw dinner, and I find this
instead. I'm very much obliged to you."
Alberta rose, went to the mantel piece, took the key of the bracelet
therefrom, and unlocked it. Then she faced Uncle William. "Mrs. Young
told us in her letter that we would find our Christmas gifts on the
table, so we took it for granted that these things belonged to us,"
she said desperately. "And now, if you will kindly tell us where Mr.
Norman Young does live, we won't intrude on you any longer. Come,
girls."
Elizabeth and I rose with a sigh. There was nothing else to be done,
of course, but we were fearfully hungry, and we did not feel
enthusiastic over the prospect of going to another empty house and
cooking another dinner.
"Wait a bit," said Uncle William. "I think since you have gone to all
the trouble of cooking the dinner it's only fair you should stay and
help to eat it. Accidents seem to be rather fashionable just now. My
housekeeper's son broke his leg down at Weston, and I had to take her
there early this morning. Come, introduce yourselves. To whom am I
indebted for this pleasant surprise?"
"We are Elizabeth, Alberta, and Mary Young of Green Village," I said;
and then I looked to see the ogre creep out if it were ever going to.
But Uncle William merely looked amazed for the first moment, foolish
for the second, and the third he was himself again.
"Robert's daughters?" he said, as if it were the most natural thing in
the world that Robert's daughters should be there in his house. "So
you are my nieces? Well, I'm very glad to make your acquaintance. Sit
down and we'll have dinner as soon as I can get my coat off. I want to
see if you are as good cooks as your mother used to be long ago."
We sat down, and so did Uncle William. Alberta had her chance to show
what she could do at carving, for Uncle William said it was something
he never did; he kept a housekeeper just for that. At first we felt a
bit stiff and awkward; but that soon wore off, for Uncle William was
genial, witty, and entertaining. Soon, to our surprise, we found that
we were enjoying ourselves. Uncle William seemed to be, too. When we
had finished he leaned back and looked at us.
"I suppose you've been brought up to abhor me and all my works?" he
said abruptly.
"Not by Father and Mother," I said frankly. "They never said anything
against you. Margaret Hannah did, though. She brought us up in the way
we should go through fear of you."
Uncle William laughed.
"Margaret Hannah was a faithful old enemy of mine," he said. "Well, I
acted like a fool--and worse. I've been sorry for it ever since. I was
in the wrong. I couldn't have said this to your father, but I don't
mind saying it to you, and you can tell him if you like."
"He'll be delighted to hear that you are no longer angry with him,"
said Alberta. "He has always longed to be friends with you again,
Uncle William. But he thought you were still bitter against him."
"No--no--nothing but stubborn pride," said Uncle William. "Now, girls,
since you are my guests I must try to give you a good time. We'll take
the double sleigh and have a jolly drive this afternoon. And about
those trinkets there--they are yours. I did get them for some young
friends of mine here, but I'll give them something else. I want you to
have these. That watch looked very nice on your blouse, Mary, and the
bracelet became Alberta's pretty wrist very well. Come and give your
cranky old uncle a hug for them."
Uncle William got his hugs heartily; then we washed up the dishes and
went for our drive. We got back just in time to catch the evening
train home. Uncle William saw us off at the station, under promise to
come back and stay a week with him when his housekeeper came home.
"One of you will have to come and stay with me altogether, pretty
soon," he said. "Tell your father he must be prepared to hand over one
of his girls to me as a token of his forgiveness. I'll be down to talk
it over with him shortly."
When we got home and told our story, Father said, "Thank God!" very
softly. There were tears in his eyes. He did not wait for Uncle
William to come down, but went to Monkshead himself the next day.
In the spring Alberta is to go and live with Uncle William. She is
making a supply of dusters now. And next Christmas we are going to
have a grand family reunion at the old homestead. Mistakes are not
always bad.