CHRISTMAS
‘Slee, sla, slud,
Stuck in the mud,
O! it is pretty to wade through a flood,
Come, wheel round,
The dirt we have found,
Would he an estate at a farthing a pound.’
LILY’S illness interrupted her teaching at the village school for many
weeks, and she was in no great haste to resume it. Alethea Weston seemed
to enjoy doing all that was required, and Lily left it in her hands, glad
to shut her eyes as much as possible to the disheartening state the
parish had been in ever since her former indiscretion.
The approach of Christmas, however, made it necessary for her to exert
herself a little more, and her interest in parish matters revived as she
distributed the clothing-club goods, and in private conference with each
good dame, learnt the wants of her family. But it was sad to miss
several names struck out of the list for non-attendance at church; and
when Mrs. Eden came for her child’s clothing, Lily remarked that the
articles she chose were unlike those of former years, the cheapest and
coarsest she could find.
St. Thomas’s day was marked by the custom, called at Beechcroft
‘gooding.’ Each mother of a family came to all the principal houses in
the parish to receive sixpence, towards providing a Christmas dinner, and
it was Lily’s business to dispense this dole at the New Court. With a
long list of names and a heap of silver before her, she sat at the oaken
table by the open chimney in the hall, returning a nod or a smiling
greeting to the thanks of the women as they came, one by one, to receive
the little silver coins, and warm themselves by the glowing wood fire.
[Picture: Dispensing the ‘Gooding.’—p. 156]
Pleasant as the task was at first, it ended painfully. Agnes Eden
appeared, in order to claim the double portion allotted to her mother, as
a widow. This was the first time that Mrs. Eden had asked for the
gooding-money, and Lily knew that it was a sign that she must be in great
distress. Agnes made her a little courtesy, and crept away again as soon
as she had received her shilling; but Mrs. Grey, who was Mrs. Eden’s
neighbour, had not quite settled her penny-club affairs, and remained a
little longer. An unassuming and lightly-principled person was Mrs.
Grey, and Lily enjoyed a talk with her, while she was waiting for the
purple stuff frock which Jane was measuring off for Kezia. They spoke of
the children, and of a few other little matters, and presently something
was said about Mrs. Eden; Lily asked if the blacksmith helped her.
‘Oh! no, Miss Lilias, he will do nothing for her while she sends her
child to school and to church. He will not speak to her even. Not a bit
of butter, nor a morsel of bacon, has been in her house since Michaelmas,
and what she would have done if it was not for Mr. Devereux and Mrs.
Weston, I cannot think.’
Lilias, much shocked by this account of the distress into which she and
Jane had been the means of bringing the widow, reported it to her father
and to the Rector; entreating the former to excuse her rent, which he
willingly promised to do, and also desired his daughters to give her a
blanket, and tell her to come to dine house whenever any broth was to be
given away. Mr. Devereux, who already knew of her troubles, and allowed
her a small sum weekly, now told his cousins how much the Greys had
assisted her. Andrew Grey had dug up and housed her winter’s store of
potatoes, he had sought work for her, and little Agnes often shared the
meals of his children. The Greys had a large family, very young, so that
all that they did for her was the fruit of self-denial. Innumerable were
the kindnesses which they performed unknown to any but the widow and her
child. More, by a hundred times, did they assist her, than the
thoughtless girls who had occasioned her sufferings, though Lily was not
the only one who felt that nothing was too much for them to do. Nothing,
perhaps, would have been too much, except to bear her in mind and
steadily aid her in little things; but Lily took no account of little
things, talked away her feelings, and thus all her grand resolutions
produced almost nothing. Lord Rotherwood sent Mrs. Eden a sovereign, the
girls newly clothed little Agnes, Phyllis sometimes carried her the
scraps of her dinner, Mrs. Eden once came to work at the New Court, and a
few messes of broth were given to her, but in general she was forgotten,
and when remembered, indolence or carelessness too often prevented the
Miss Mohuns from helping her. In Emily’s favourite phrase, each
individual thing was ‘not worth while.’
When Lilias did think it ‘worth while,’ she would do a great deal upon
impulse, sometimes with more zeal than discretion, as she proved by an
expedition which she took on Christmas Eve. Mr. Mohun did not allow the
poor of the village to depend entirely on the gooding for their Christmas
dinner, but on the 24th of December a large mess of excellent beef broth
was prepared at the New Court, and distributed to all his own labourers,
and the most respectable of the other cottagers.
In the course of the afternoon Lily found that one portion had not been
given out. It was that which was intended for the Martins, a poor old
rheumatic couple, who lived at South End, the most distant part of the
parish. Neither of them could walk as far as the New Court, and most of
their neighbours had followed Farmer Gage, and had therefore been
excluded from the distribution, so that there was no one to send. Lily,
therefore, resolved herself to carry the broth to them, if she could find
an escort, which was not an easy matter, as the frost had that morning
broken up, and a good deal of snow and rain had been falling in the
course of the day. In the hall she met Reginald, just turned out of
Maurice’s workshop, and much at a loss for employment.
‘Redgie,’ said she, ‘you can do me a great kindness.’
‘If it is not a bore,’ returned Reginald.
‘I only want you to walk with me to South End.’
‘Eh?’ said Reginald; ‘I thought the little Misses were too delicate to
put their dear little proboscises outside the door.’
‘That is the reason I ask you; I do not think Emily or Jane would like
it, and it is too far for Claude. Those poor old Martins have not got
their broth, and there is no one to fetch it for them.’
‘Then do not be half an hour putting on your things.’
‘Thank you; and do not run off, and make me spend an hour in hunting for
you, and then say that I made you wait.’
‘I will wait fast enough. You are not so bad as Emily,’ said Reginald,
while Lily ran upstairs to equip herself. When she came down, she was
glad to find her escort employed in singeing the end of the tail of the
old rocking-horse at the fire in the hall, so that she was not obliged to
seek him in the drawing-room, where her plans would probably have met
with opposition. She had, however, objections to answer from an
unexpected quarter. Reginald was much displeased when she took
possession of the pitcher of broth.
‘I will not walk with such a thing as that,’ said he, ‘it makes you look
like one of the dirty girls in the village.’
‘Then you ought, like the courteous Rinaldo, to carry it for me,’ said
Lily.
‘I touch the nasty thing! Faugh! Throw it into the gutter, Lily.’
He made an attempt to dispose of it in that manner, which it required all
Lily’s strength to withstand, as well as an imploring ‘Now, Redgie, think
of the poor old people. Remember, you have promised.’
‘Promised! I never promised to walk with a greasy old pitcher. What am
I to do if we meet Miss Weston?’
Lily contrived to overcome Reginald’s refined notions sufficiently to
make him allow her to carry the pitcher; and when he had whistled up two
of the dogs, they proceeded merrily along the road, dirty and wet though
it was. Their walk was not entirely without adventures; first, they had
to turn back in the path by the river side, which would have saved them
half a mile, but was now flooded. Then, as they were passing through a
long lane, which led them by Edward Gage’s farm, a great dog rushed out
of the yard, and fell upon the little terrier, Viper. Old Neptune flew
to the rescue, and to the great alarm of Lily, Reginald ran up with a
stick; happily, however, a labourer at the same time came out with a
pitchfork, and beat off the enemy. These two delays, together with
Reginald’s propensity for cutting sticks, and for breaking ice, made it
quite late when they arrived at South End. When there, they found that a
kind neighbour had brought the old people their broth in the morning, and
intended to go for her own when she came home from her work in the
evening. It was not often that Lily went to South End; the old people
were delighted to see her, and detained her for some time by a long story
about their daughter at service, while Reginald looked the picture of
impatience, drumming on his knee, switching the leg of the table, and
tickling Neptune’s ears. When they left the cottage it was much later
and darker than they had expected; but Lily was unwilling again to
encounter the perils of the lane, and consulted her brother whether there
was not some other way. He gave notice of a cut across some fields,
which would take them into the turnpike road, and Lily agreeing, they
climbed over a gate into a pathless turnip field. Reginald strode along
first, calling to the dogs, while Lily followed, abstaining from dwelling
on the awkward circumstance that every step she took led her farther from
home, and rejoicing that it was so dark that she could not see the mud
which plastered the edge of her petticoats. After plodding through three
very long fields, they found themselves shut in by a high hedge and tall
ditch.
‘That fool of a farmer!’ cried Reginald.
‘What is to be done?’ said Lily, disconsolately.
‘There is the road,’ said Reginald. ‘How do you propose to get into it?’
‘There was a gap here last summer,’ said the boy.
‘Very likely! Come back; try the next field; it must have a gate
somewhere.’
Back they went, after seeing the carrier’s cart from Raynham pass by.
‘Redgie, it must be half-past five! We shall never be in time. Aunt
Rotherwood coming too!’
After a desperate plunge through a swamp of ice, water, and mud, they
found themselves at a gate, and safely entered the turnpike road.
‘How it rains!’ said Lily. ‘One comfort is that it is too dark for any
one to see us.’
‘Not very dark, either,’ said Reginald; ‘I believe there is a moon if one
could see it. Ha! here comes some one on horseback. It is a gray horse;
it is William.’
‘Come to look for us,’ said Lily. ‘Oh, Redgie!’
‘Coming home from Raynham,’ said Reginald. ‘Do not fancy yourself so
important, Lily. William, is that you?’
‘Reginald!’ exclaimed William, suddenly checking his horse. ‘Lily, what
is all this?’
‘We set out to South End, to take the broth to the old Martins, and we
found the meadows flooded, which made us late; but we shall soon be at
home,’ said Lily, in a make-the-best-of-it tone.
‘Soon? You are a mile and a half from home now, and do you know how late
it is?’
‘Half-past five,’ said Lily.
‘Six, at least; how could you be so absurd?’ William rode quickly on;
Reginald laughed, and they plodded on; at length a tall dark figure was
seen coming towards them, and Lily started, as it addressed her, ‘Now
what is the meaning of all this?’
‘Oh, William, have you come to meet us? Thank you; I am sorry—’
‘How were you to come through the village in the dark, without some one
to take care of you?’
‘I am taking care of her,’ said Reginald, affronted.
‘Make haste; my aunt is come. How could you make the people at home so
anxious?’
William gave Lily his arm, and on finding she was both tired and wet,
again scolded her, walked so fast that she was out of breath, then
complained of her folly, and blamed Reginald. It was very unpleasant,
and yet she was very much obliged to him, and exceedingly sorry he had
taken so much trouble.
They came home at about seven o’clock. Jane met them in the hall, full
of her own and Lady Rotherwood’s wonderings; she hurried Lily upstairs,
and—skilful, quick, and ready—she helped her to dress in a very short
time. As they ran down Reginald overtook them, and they entered the
drawing-room as the dinner-bell was ringing. William did not appear for
some time, and his apologies were not such as to smooth matters for his
sister.
Perhaps it was for this very reason that Mr. Mohun allowed Lily to escape
with no more than a jesting reproof. Lord Rotherwood wished to make his
cousin’s hardihood and enterprise an example to his sister, and, in his
droll exaggerating way, represented such walks as every-day occurrences.
This was just the contrary to what Emily wished her aunt to believe, and
Claude was much diverted with the struggle between her politeness to Lord
Rotherwood and her desire to maintain the credit of the family.
Lady Florence, though liking Lilias, thought this walk extravagant.
Emily feared Lilias had lost her aunt’s good opinion, and prepared
herself for some hints about a governess. It was untoward; but in the
course of the evening she was a little comforted by a proposal from Lady
Rotherwood to take her and Lilias to a ball at Raynham, which was to take
place in January; and as soon as the gentlemen appeared, they submitted
the invitation to their father, while Lady Rotherwood pressed William to
accompany them, and he was refusing.
‘What are soldiers intended for but to dance!’ said Lord Rotherwood.
‘I never dance,’ said William, with a grave emphasis.
‘I am out of the scrape,’ said the Marquis. ‘I shall be gone before it
takes place; I reserve all my dancing for July 30th. Well, young ladies,
is the Baron propitious?’
‘He says he will consider of it,’ said Emily.
‘Oh then, he will let you go,’ said Florence, ‘people never consider when
they mean no.’
‘No, Florence,’ said her brother, ‘Uncle Mohun’s “consider of it” is
equivalent to Le Roi’s “avisera.”’
‘What is he saying?’ asked Lily, turning to listen. ‘Oh, that my wig is
in no ball-going condition.’
‘A wreath would hide all deficiencies,’ said Florence; ‘I am determined
to have you both.’
‘I give small hopes of both,’ said Claude; ‘you will only have Emily.’
‘Why do you think so, Claude?’ cried both Florence and Lilias.
‘From my own observation,’ Claude answered, gravely.
‘I am very angry with the Baron,’ said Lord Rotherwood; ‘he is grown
inhospitable: he will not let me come here to-morrow—the first Christmas
these five years that I have missed paying my respects to the New Court
sirloin and turkey. It is too bad—and the Westons dining here too.’
‘Cousin Turkey-cock, well may you be in a passion,’ muttered Claude, as
if in soliloquy.
Lord Rotherwood and Lilias both caught the sound, and laughed, but Emily,
unwilling that Florence should see what liberties they took with her
brother, asked quickly why he was not to come.
‘I think we are much obliged to him,’ said Florence, ‘it would be too bad
to leave mamma and me to spend our Christmas alone, when we came to the
castle on purpose to oblige him.’
‘Ay, and he says he will not let me come here, because I ought to give
the Hetherington people ocular demonstration that I go to church,’ said
Lord Rotherwood.
‘Very right, as Eleanor would say,’ observed Claude.
‘Very likely; but I don’t care for the Hetherington folks; they do not
know how to make the holly in the church fit to be seen, and they will
not sing the good old Christmas carols. Andrew Grey is worth all the
Hetherington choir put together.’
‘Possibly; but how are they to mend, if their Marquis contents himself
with despising them?’ said Claude.
‘That is too bad, Claude. When you heard how submissively I listened to
the Baron, and know I mean to abide by what he said, you ought to condole
with me a little, if you have not the grace to lament my absence on your
own account. Why, I thought myself as regular a part of the feast as the
mince-pies, and almost as necessary.’
Here a request for some music put an end to his lamentations. Lilias was
vexed by the uncertainty about the ball, and was, besides, too tired to
play with spirit. She saw that Emily was annoyed, and she felt ready to
cry before the evening was over; but still she was proud of her exploit,
and when, after the party was gone, Emily began to represent to her the
estimate that her aunt was likely to form of her character, she replied,
‘If she thinks the worse of me for carrying the broth to those poor old
people, I am sure I do not wish for her good opinion.’
Mr. Mohun was not propitious when the question of Lily’s going to the
ball was pressed upon him. He said that he thought her too young for
gaieties, and, besides, that late hours never agreed with her, and he
advised her to wait for the 30th of July.
Lilias knew that it was useless to say any more. She was much
disappointed, and at the same time provoked with herself for caring about
such a matter. Her temper was out of order on Christmas Day; and while
she wondered why she could not enjoy the festival as formerly, with
thoughts fitted to the day, she did not examine herself sufficiently to
find out the real cause of her uncomfortable feelings.
The clear frost was only cold; the bright sunshine did not rejoice her;
the holly and the mistletoe seemed ill arranged; and none of the pleasant
sights of the day could give her such blitheness as once she had known.
She was almost angry when she saw that the Westons had left off their
mourning, declaring that they did not look like themselves; and her
vexation came to a height when she found that Alethea actually intended
to go to the ball with Mrs. Carrington. The excited manner in which she
spoke of it convinced Mr. Mohun that he had acted wisely in not allowing
her to go, since the very idea seemed to turn her head.