WHEN the congregation of St Mary’s Church, Thornleigh, came gaily forth
on Christmas Day, pausing in the porch and on the steps, and almost
blocking the gateway as they exchanged cheery greetings and good wishes
with friends and neighbours, old Joe Makin loitered behind. He spoke to
no one, scarcely venturing to show himself, it would appear, till the
merry groups had dispersed and the last gleeful youngster had come
clattering down from his place in the choir, and scampered off to join
the family circle.
When all at last was still, Joe came slowly out, pulling his hat-brim
down over his eyes, and looking neither to right nor to left. Instead
of, however, descending the steps that led to the lich-gate he went
hobbling round to the rear of the church, and then paused before one of
the graves.
The headstone bore the name of Annie, only child of Joseph and Mary
Makin, and recorded her death as having taken place at a date full
thirty-five years distant. Lower down was another inscription in memory
of the aforesaid Mary Makin, who had departed this life, it seemed, but a
few months before that very Christmas Day.
Joe looked round to assure himself that no one was in sight, and then,
stooping stiffly, endeavoured to brush away with his hand the slight
sprinkling of snow which had fallen on the little mound. Drawing a pair
of scissors from his capacious pocket, he clipped the grass here and
there where it had grown rank, muttering to himself the while.
“’Tisn’t much harm, I don’t think—nay, it canna be much harm, though it
is Christmas Day, just to fettle it up a bit for our Mary. Hoo allus
liked everything gradely—eh, that hoo did. Now hoo must have a bit o’
green to mak her know ’tis Christmas—ah, and the little ’un too. Annie
shall have a sprig wi’ some pratty berries on’t.”
He took from beneath his coat two sprigs of holly, and after some
difficulty succeeded in sticking them upright into the half-frozen
ground, the larger one at the head of the grave, the smaller, all gay
with red berries, at the foot.
“Theer, owd lass,” he said, straightening himself at last, “thou shall
have a bit o’ green at head o’ thy bed same as ever—eh, I could wish I
were a-layin’ theer aside o’ thee—Can’st thou see the berries, little
wench, wheer thou art, up yon?—Well—I mun be off a-whoam now. Eh, but
the grave looks gradely.”
Somewhat comforted by this reflection he turned about, and set off
homewards.
There were few loiterers in the village street; every one was indoors,
either preparing for, or already partaking of, the Christmas dinner.
When Lancashire folks make merry they like, as they say, to have plenty
“to mak’ merry wi’.” For weeks, nay, months past, thrifty housewives had
been looking forward to this day, and not a little self-denial had been
practised in order to ensure the keeping of it with becoming lavishness.
From every house that Joe passed issued sounds of cheerful bustle, jests
and laughter; he could see the firelight glancing on the window-panes,
and catch glimpses of wonderful decorations in the way of cut paper and
greenery. Here and there a little head would be pressed against the
shining pane to watch for some belated guest; now and again he would hear
a greeting exchanged between one and another; “Merry Christmas, owd lad!”
“The same to you, man!” And then the chairs would draw up and there
would be a clatter of plates, and a very babel of acclamations would
declare the goose or the bit o’ beef to be the finest that ever was seen.
Joe was going to have a goose for his Christmas dinner; he had always
subscribed to a goose club in his missus’s time, and he had not yet
learned to get into new ways; but the thought of that goose of which he
was to partake in absolute solitude served only to increase his
melancholy.
Poor Mary! how she would have enjoyed it—and she lay yonder in the cold
ground.
When he arrived at his cottage he took the door-key from its usual
hiding-place behind the loose brick under the ivy, and let himself in.
Widow Prescott, who “did for him” now, had made everything ready before
she had taken her departure for her own home. A savoury smell came from
the oven where the goose and the pudding (sent as usual from the Hall)
were keeping hot; the cloth was laid, the hearth swept up; the good woman
had even garnished the place with a sprig of green, here and there; but
the table was laid for one, and the missus’s chair stood against the
wall. Joe stood still and looked at it, slowly shaking his head.
“Eh, theer it stands,” he said, speaking aloud, according to his custom,
“theer it stands. Eh dear, an’ her and me have sat opposite to each for
such a many years! And theer’s the cheer empty, and here am I all by
mysel’, and it’s Christmas Day!”
He wiped his eyes and shook his head again; then he slowly divested
himself of his hat and coat, which he hung up behind the door, set the
goose and potatoes on the table, and sat down.
“For what we are about to receive—” began Joe, dismally, and then he
suddenly got on to his feet again. “I’ll have that theer cheer at the
table as how ’tis,” said he, and hobbled across the floor towards it.
Then, as though struck by a sudden thought, he continued in an altered
voice, “Pull up, missus, draw a bit nearer, lass. That’s it. Now we’s
get to work.”
He dragged the chair over to the table, and set a plate in front of it,
and a knife and fork, and reached down a cup from the dresser.
“We’s have a cup o’ tea jest now,” said he; “thou allus liked a cup o’
tea to thy dinner.”
Returning to his place he sat down once more.
“I’ll mak’ shift to think thou’s theer,” he said. “I’ll happen be able
to eat a bit if I can fancy thou’s theer. I reckon thou’rt very like to
be near me somewheer, owd lass; thou an’ me as was never parted for a day
for nigh upon forty year, ’tisn’t very like as thou’d let me keep
Christmas all by mysel’.”
He was so busy talking to himself that he did not notice that the latch
of the house door, which opened directly into the place, was lifted, as
though by a hesitating hand, and that the door itself was softly pushed a
very little way open.
Taking up the carving-knife he cut a slice from the breast of the goose.
“Wilt have a little bit?” he asked, looking towards the empty chair.
“Yes, please,” said a little voice behind him; the door was opened and
closed again, and little feet came pattering hastily across the floor.
Joe dropped the knife and fork and looked round; a small figure stood at
his elbow, a dimpled face surmounted by a very mop of yellow curls, was
eagerly lifted to meet his gaze.
“Hullo!” cried Joe.
“Hullo!” echoed the little creature, and catching hold of his sleeve, the
child added in a tone of delighted anticipation, “Please, I could like a
bit.”
“Why, whose little lass are you?” inquired the old man. “And what brings
ye out on Christmas Day? Why, thou’rt starved wi’ cowd, an’ never a hat
a-top of all they curls, an’ not so much as a bit o’ shawl to hap thee
round. What’s thy name, my wench?”
“Jinny, please, Mr Makin,” announced she; “Jinny Frith. I am John
Frith’s little lass—John o’ Joe’s, ye know.”
“I know,” said he; “and what brings ye out in the cowd?”
Here the little face became overcast, and the little lip drooped.
“Mother put me in the wash-house,” said she. “Hoo wouldn’t let me sit at
table; hoo put me in the wash-house, and I saw your fire shinin’ through
the window, and I thought I’d come and ax ye to let me come in and warm
mysel’.”
“Well, an’ so I will,” returned Joe, heartily. “Put ye in the
wash-house, did hoo? Well, and that’s a tale. Hoo’s thy stepmother,
isn’t hoo? Ah, I mind it now, I mind hearin’ thy feyther ’ad getten a
new wife.”
Jinny nodded, “An’ a lot o’ new childer!” she announced. “There’s Tommy,
an’ Teddy, an’ Maggie, an’ Pollie, mother brought ’em all wi’ her.”
“Ah, she was a widow, was she?” queried Joe, interested.
“An’ there’s quite a new baby,” continued Jinny, opening her eyes wide,
“a new, little, wee baby. That’s my own sister. Hoo’s so bonny, nobbut
when hoo cries. Hoo cried jest now along o’ me makin’ a noise, and
mother was some mad.”
“Well, but your mother didn’t ought to have put ye in the wash-house for
that,” returned Joe. “You didn’t go for to wakken the babby a-purpose.
Theer, coom nigh the fire and warm thysel’ a bit. Eh, what little cowd
hands. What’s that theer on thy arm?”
Jinny turned her chubby arm and examined the mark reflectively.
“I know!” she cried, “’twas where mother hit me with a spoon yesterday.
I wer’ reachin’ for the sugar.”
“Hoo hit ye, did hoo?” cried Joe, with a sort of roar. “My word! the
woman mun ha’ a hard heart to hit a little lass same as thee. What was
feyther doing, eh?”
“Feyther was eatin’ his breakfast,” responded Jinny. “He said hoo didn’t
ought to hit me—and then hoo got agate o’ bargein’ at him.”
“Well, well,” commented Joe, who had been chafing the little cold hands
throughout the recital, “the poor man’s pretty well moidered, I reckon.
But coom! the goose ’ull soon be as cowd as thee if we don’t give over
talkin’ an’ start eatin’. Thou’d like a bit o’ goose, wouldn’t thou?”
“Eh, I would!” cried Jinny, with such whole-souled earnestness that he
laughed again.
Breaking from him she clambered into the chair opposite to his own—poor
Mary’s chair. And there she sat, her feet a long way from the floor, but
the better able on that account to give certain little kicks to the table
in token of ecstasy.
Joe looked across at her: how strange to see that chubby face, and golden
head, in the place of the kindly wrinkled countenance which had so often
smiled affectionately back at him from between the closely pleated frills
of Mary’s antiquated cap! But the chair was no longer empty, and, though
Joe sighed as he took up his knife and fork, he thought that the tangible
vision of the expectant little face was, on the whole, more conducive to
dispel loneliness than the most determined attempts at make-believe.
“Hoo’s not theer,” he muttered; “hoo’ll never be theer no more, but it’s
a good job as yon little lass chanced to look in—’tis better nor the
wash-house for the little thing, as how ’tis.”
Who shall say how Jinny revelled in the goose, and the stuffing, and the
apple-sauce—particularly in the apple-sauce? It was pleasant to see the
solemnity with which she presently selected the biggest potato in the
dish, and, sliding down from her chair, marched round the table to bestow
it on her host.
“You deserve it,” said she, with a quaintly condescending air—“you are so
good. Besides you are the owdest,” she added as an after thought.
“Well, to be sure!” ejaculated Joe, leaning back in his chair the better
to clap his hands.
Then, of course, Jinny was obliged to peel the potato for Joe, and to cut
it up for him; she would in fact have liked to feed him, had not a timely
suggestion as to the advisability of continuing her own dinner recalled
her attention to that very important matter.
When the pudding came, she insisted on measuring plates to make quite
sure that Joe was not defrauding himself of any portion of his just
share; and was altogether so judicious and patronising, not to say
motherly, that the old man partook of the repast to an accompaniment of
perpetual chuckles. His delight was greatest, perhaps, when Jinny
insisted on “siding” the dinner things at the conclusion of the meal, a
task which she accomplished with most business-like dexterity. One by
one she carried away dishes and plates—having first taken the precaution
of setting the buttery door ajar—then she swept up the floor, and folded
the cloth, in a somewhat lop-sided manner it must be owned, but with an
air which left no doubt of her own consciousness of efficiency.
“I’ll wash up by and by,” she remarked, as she returned to Joe’s side.
“Eh, we’ll not ax thee to do that,” replied he. “Thou art a wonderful
little lass. Thou art, for sure! And nobbut six! Thou’s a gradely
headpiece under they curls o’ thine.”
“My curls is all comin’ off,” remarked Jinny, with a little toss of the
head that carried them.
“What!” cried Joe, almost jumping from his chair.
“Mother’s goin’ to cut them all off,” explained the child. “They take
such a time brushin’ out—and sometimes hoo pulls ’em an’ hoo’s vexed when
I cry. So hoo says, Off they must come. Daddy axed hoo to leave ’em
till Christmas, but I ’spect hoo’ll have ’em off to-morrow.”
“Well, that beats all!” cried Joe, as profoundly moved with indignation
as though the decree had gone forth that Jinny must lose her head instead
of her hair. “I should think that any woman as is a woman, or for the
matter o’ that, anybody wi’ a heart in their breast, ought to be glad and
proud to comb out they curls. For the matter o’ that I’d be willin’ to
comb ’em out mysel’, if that’s all the trouble. Coom over here of a
mornin’, my wench, with thy brush an’ comb, and I’ll see to you.”
“Will ye, Mr Makin?” said Jinny, clapping her hands. “Eh, ye are good!
Didn’t I say ye was good? The goodest mon—I—ever—did—see,” she added
with emphasis. “I wish I was your little lass,” she remarked, after a
pause.
“Do ye?” returned Joe, setting aside the pipe which he had been about to
fill, and drawing her towards him. “Ye’d never like to live wi’ an owd
mon same as me,” he pursued in a hesitating tone. “Nay, of course, ye
wouldn’t; ye’d be awful dull.”
Jinny shook her head till her curls made a yellow nimbus. “I wouldn’t!”
she cried with emphasis. “I’d love to live here wi’ you, Mr Makin.
You’d be my daddy then, wouldn’t ye? Were you ever a daddy, Mr Makin?”
“A long time ago,” said Joe, “I had a little lass o’ my own, and she’d
curly hair mich the same as thine and bonny blue e’en. Her little bed is
up yon in the top chamber.”
“If I was your little lass I could sleep in her little bed, couldn’t I?”
returned Jinny, who was a practical young person. “Daddy’s got a lot of
new childer—and I could like to have a new daddy. I’d like _you_ for my
daddy, Mr Makin,” she insisted.
“Well,” returned Joe, uplifting her dimpled chin with his rugged
forefinger, “’tis a notion that; I reckon I could do wi’ thee very well.”
“I’d sleep—in—that—little—bed—up—yon,” resumed Jinny, in a sort of chant,
“and I’d sit in this here chair.”
With some difficulty she dragged over the missus’s chair to the opposite
side of the hearth, and climbed into it. There she sat with her curly
head leaning against the back, a little hand on each of its wooden arms,
and her chubby legs dangling. It was the missus’s chair, but Joe did not
chide the presumptuous little occupant. On the contrary, he gave a sort
of one-sided nod at her, and winked with both eyes together.
“Now you are as grand as the Queen,” said he.
While they were chuckling together over this sally, there came a sound of
hasty steps without, followed by a knock on the door; and John Frith
thrust in his head.
“Eh, thou’rt theer!” he cried. “My word, Jinny, what a fright thou’s
gi’en me. I thought thou was lost.”
Joe removed his pipe from his mouth, and gazed at the newcomer sternly.
“Hoo’s here, reet enough,” he returned. “Sit still, Jinny,” as the
child, abashed, began to get down from the chair; “thou’s no need to
stir—coom in if ye are coming, John,” he added, over his shoulder, “an’
shut yon door. The wind blows in strong enough to send us up the
chimbley—Jinny and me.”
John obediently closed the door, and came forward. He was a big,
loose-limbed, good-natured looking fellow, without much headpiece the
neighbours said, but with his heart in the right place. As he now
advanced, his face wore an expression, half of amusement, half of
concern.
“Eh, whoever’d ha’ thought of her runnin’ off here!” he ejaculated.
“Theer’s sich a to-do at our place as never was. Some on ’em thought
hoo’d fallen down the well. Eh, Jinny, thou’lt catch it from mother.
Why didn’t thou stop i’ th’ wash-house?”
Jinny began to whimper, but before she could reply, Joe Makin took up the
cudgels in her defence.
“Stop in the wash-house indeed!” cried he. “Yo’ did ought to be ashamed
o’ yo’rsel’, John Prescott. Stop in th’ wash-house on Christmas Day, to
be starved wi’ cowd, an’ clemmed wi’ hunger. ‘I dunno how yo’ can call
yo’rsel’ a mon an’ say sich a thing—yo’, as is her feyther an’ all.”
“Eh, dear o’ me,” cried John, “’tis enough to drive a mon distracted,
what wi’ one thing an’ what wi’ another. I ax naught but a quiet life.
Jinny, hoo woke the babby, and the missus, hoo got in one of her
tantrums, an’ the childer was all fightin’ an’ skrikin’, an’ the whole
place upside down—eh, theer’s too many on ’em yonder an’ that’s the
truth, but if I say a word hoo’s down on me.”
“Yo’re a gradely fool to ston’ it, then!” retorted Joe. “The mon should
be gaffer in his own house.”
“Oh, I don’t say but what he ought to be,” responded John, with a
sheepish smile, “but ’tis easier said than done, mon: I weren’t a-goin’
to leave the little lass in the wash-house,” he added in an explanatory
tone, “I were goin’ to let her out reet enough on the quiet. I’d saved a
bit o’ dinner for her, too—”
“Oh, yo’ had, had yo’?” interrupted Joe, ironically. “Coom now, that’s
summat. You weren’t goin’ to let her clem on Christmas Day—well done!
’Twas actin’ like a mon, that was—yo’ may be proud o’ that, John. I tell
yo’ what,” cried Joe, thumping the table, “since yo’ take no more thought
for your own flesh an’ blood nor that, yo’ may mak’ a present o’ the
little lass to me.”
“Mak’ a present!” stammered the other, staring at him.
“Ah,” returned Joe, sternly, “you don’t vally her no more nor if hoo wer’
an owd dish-clout—lettin’ her be thrown out in the wash-house an’ all—but
I’m made different. Your house is too full, yo’ say—well mine’s
empty—awful empty,” he added with something like a groan. “Theer’s too
many on yo’ yon, at your place—well, then, I’ll take Jinny off ye.”
John still stared at him without speaking, and Joe continued vehemently.
“I say I’ll take her off yo’. There’ll ’appen be more peace at yo’r
place when the little wench is out of the road; an’ they curls o’ hers
may stop on her head instead o’ being cut off an’ thrown in the
midden—an’ if hoo axes for a bit o’ sugar hoo shan’t get hit wi’ a spoon.
Theer now,” he summed up sternly.
John scratched his head and reflected. Jinny was his own flesh and
blood, and he loved her after his fashion; but there was no doubt things
were very uncomfortable at home, and if she were not there, there was
likely to be more peace. If Joe really meant what he said he might be
worth hearkening to.
“Yo’ seem to have taken a wonderful fancy to the little lass,” he said
hesitatingly; “hoo’s a good little lass enough, but—I reckon yo’re
laughin’ at me.”
“I wer’ never more in earnest i’ my life,” said Joe. “Coom, it mun be
one way or t’other. Mun I have her?”
“Oh, you can have her reet enough!” returned the father, with a
shamefaced laugh. “Would ye like to live here, Jinny?”
“Eh, I would!” she cried. “Eh, that I would! He shall be my new daddy.”
A pang shot through her own father’s heart.
“An’ yo’ll think no more o’ the owd one now, I reckon,” he said.
Jinny looked from one to the other quickly.
“Two daddies!” she said emphatically, adding after a pause. “Two daddies
and no mother—that’s what I’d like.”
“Poor little lass!” said John, with something like a groan. “I reckon
thou would; I doubt I can’t blame thee.”
“’Tis settled, then; I can keep her?” cried Joe eagerly.
“Ah,” returned John, backing towards the door, “’tis reet—yo’ can keep
her.”
As the door closed behind him, Jinny returned to her big elbow chair, and
once more taking possession of it, folded her hands on her lap and
announced triumphantly that she was the little missus.
“Bless thy bonny face,” cried Joe, “and so thou art.”