‘How goodness heightens beauty!’
‘Oh, what a Christmas Day!’ cries Betty, springing out of bed and
rushing to the window.
‘You will catch your death of cold,’ says Susan sleepily; but in spite
of this protest, or, rather, in despite of it, she, too, jumps out of
her cosy nest and hurries to the window. ‘Oh, what a morning!’ breathes
she.
And, indeed, the world seems all afire to-day. The sun is glittering
upon the snow, and the snow is casting back at it lights scarcely less
brilliant. All the trees and shrubs are gaily decked with snowy wraps
and armlets, whilst here and there, through the universal white, big
branches of holly-berries, scarlet as blood, peep out.
‘Ouf! Yes; but it’s cold,’ says Betty, after a moment or two.
‘I told you you would catch cold,’ says Susan, turning upon her
indignantly, though in reality she stands quite as big a chance of
meeting the dread foe as Betty.
‘I’ll catch you instead!’ cries Betty, with full intent.
Whereon ensues a combat that might have given the gods pause—a most
spirited hunt, that takes them round and round the small bedroom a dozen
times or more. It is a regular chase; over the bed, and past the
wardrobe, and behind the dressing-table—it was a near shave for Susan
that last, and full of complication, but she gets out of it with the
loss of only one small china ornament, the very least concession that
could be made to the god of battle.
And now away again! Over the bed once more, and round a chair, deftly
directed at the enemy’s toes, and——After all, the very bravest of us can
sometimes know defeat, and Susan is at last run to earth between a
basket-chair and a trunk.
* * * * *
After this they condescend to dress—both a little exhausted, and Betty,
I regret to say, jibbing at her bath.
‘If it was hot I’d say nothing,’ says she. ‘When I’m married I’ll have a
hot bath in December.’
‘Who’d marry you?’ says Susan, and then, like the immortal parrot, is
sorry that she spoke. Showers of icy water descend upon her!
But now breakfast is ready, and they must hasten down, with a last look
out of their favourite window at the golden colouring there.
‘I suppose it’s almost warm where Bonnie is,’ says Betty, after a slight
pause.
‘I hope so. Yes; I think so.’ There is, however, doubt in Susan’s tone.
It seems impossible to believe any place warm with that snow-burdened
garden outside.
‘It must be warm,’ says Betty. ‘Bonnie could not stand cold like this,
and the last accounts were not bad’—this rather doubtfully.
‘No. But’—Susan’s face, that had been glowing, now loses something of
its warmth—‘not good, either. Still——Betty’—she looks at her
sister—‘don’t you think Mr. Crosby is a man one might depend upon?’
‘Oh, I do—I do indeed!’ says Betty. ‘He’—earnestly, and with a view to
please Susan—‘is so ugly that anyone might depend upon him.’
‘Ugly! He certainly is not ugly,’ says Susan. ‘I must say, Betty, I
think sometimes you make the most foolish remarks.’
‘Well, I’ll say he’s handsome, if you like,’ says Betty, slightly
affronted. ‘Any way, he has been very good to Bonnie. I suppose that’s
what makes him handsome in your eyes. And he has been kind, too—could
anyone be kinder?—and sometimes, Susan, I feel that I love him just as
much as you do.’
‘Oh, I don’t love him!’ says Susan, flushing.
‘No? Is it gratitude, then? Well, whatever it is you feel, Susan, I feel
just the same—because he has been so kind to poor Bonnie.’
Susan turns away without replying. And then, ‘We must go down,’ says
she.
‘Well, come,’ says Betty, a little urgently. ‘I’m sure I have only been
waiting for you, Susan. I wonder what Christmas cards we shall get.’
‘One from Dom, any way.’
Mr. Fitzgerald had been summoned home by his guardian for Christmas,
much to his disgust.
‘Oh, that! But Dom doesn’t count!’ says Betty, tilting her pretty nose
in rather a disdainful fashion.
* * * * *
Breakfast is nearly over, however, before the post arrives. The postman
of Curraghcloyne has had many delays to-day. At every house every
resident has given him his Christmas-box, and sometimes a ‘stirrup cup’
besides, so that by the time he gets to the Rectory he is very
considerably the worse for wear. Yet he gives out his letters there with
the air of a finished postman, and accepts the Rectory annual five
shillings with a bow that would not have disgraced Chesterfield. That
his old caubeen is on the side of his head, and his articulation
somewhat indistinct, detracts in no wise from the dignity of the way in
which he delivers his packages and bids Mr. Barry ‘All th’ complaints o’
t’ saison!’
‘Oh, here’s one from Dom!’ cries Betty, tearing open her letter. ‘And
written all on the back! What on earth has he got to say on a Christmas
card? Why didn’t he write a letter?
‘“MY DEAR BETTY,
‘“I feel as I write this that you don’t know where you are. That shows
the great moral difference between you and me. I know where I am, and
I wish to Heaven I didn’t. Old uncle is awfully trying. Puts your back
up half a dozen times a minute. I don’t believe I’ll ever get back;
because if he doesn’t murder me I shall infallibly murder him, and
then where shall we all be? I’ve written most religiously all over
this card (I chose a big one on purpose), so that you cannot, in the
usual mean fashion peculiar to girls, send it on again to your dearest
friend as a New Year’s offering. See how well I know your little
ways!”’
‘Isn’t he a beast!’ says Betty, with honest meaning. ‘And it would have
done so nicely for old Miss Blake. You see, she has sent me one, though
I had quite forgotten all about her. I must say Dom is downright
malignant. I suppose I’ll have to buy her one now. All the rest of mine
have “Happy Christmas” on them, and it does look badly to send a card
like that for New Year’s Day. Dom’s has both Christmas and New Year on
it, and of course it would have suited beautifully. Oh, Susan’—pouncing
on a card in Susan’s hand—‘what a beauty, and nothing written on the
back. You will let me have it for Miss Blake, won’t you?’
‘No, no,’ says Susan hastily. She takes it back quickly from Betty. A
little sharp unwelcome blush has sprung into her cheeks.
‘Who is it from—James?’
‘James! Are you mad?’ says Susan. ‘Fancy my caring for a card from
James! Why, here is his, and you can have it to make ducks and drakes
of, if you like.’
‘But that, then?’ questions Betty, with some pardonable curiosity,
pointing at the card denied her.
‘It is from Mr. Crosby. Don’t you think, Betty,’ the treacherous colour
growing deeper, ‘that one should treasure even a card sent by one who
has been so good to Bonnie?’
‘I do—I do indeed,’ says Betty earnestly. ‘And, after all, one would
treasure a card from most people. Even this’—flicking Dom’s somewhat
contemptuously—‘I’ll have to treasure, as I can’t send it away to
anyone. Susan, I wonder if Ella has got any cards besides those we sent
her? Shall we go to her this afternoon and ask her?’
‘I don’t suppose she can have got any,’ says Susan thoughtfully. ‘You
know she keeps herself so aloof from the world. She had yours and mine
certainly, and Carew’s.’
‘Did Carew send her one?’
‘Didn’t you know?’ Susan laughs a little. ‘I didn’t think it was a
secret. I went into his room yesterday, and saw an envelope directed to
Ella, and said something about it; but I really quite thought he had
told you, too.’
‘Well, he didn’t! After dinner, Susan, let us run down and see her, and
show her our cards.’
‘Oh no!’ says Susan, shrinking a little. ‘If she had none of her own, it
might make her feel—feel lonely!’
‘That’s true,’ says Betty.