SHOWING HOW ISABEL LOWND REPENTED HER FAULT
In spite of her piteous condition and near prospect of death, Isabel Lownd completed her round of visits among her old friends. That Christmas should be kept in some way by every inhabitant of Kirkby Cliffe, was a thing of course. The district is not poor, and plenty on that day was rarely wanting. But Parson Lownd was not what we call a rich man; and there was no resident squire in the parish. The farmers, comprehending well their own privileges, and aware that the obligation of gentle living did not lie on them, were inclined to be close-fisted; and thus there was sometimes a difficulty in providing for the old and the infirm. There was a certain ancient widow in the village, of the name of Mucklewort, who was troubled with three orphan grandchildren and a lame daughter; and Isabel had, some days since, expressed a fear up at the parsonage that the good things of this world might be scarce in the old widow’s cottage. Something had, of course, been done for the old woman, but not enough, as Isabel had thought. “My dear,” her mother had said, “it is no use trying to make very poor people think that they are not poor.”
“It is only one day in the year,” Isabel had pleaded.
“What you give in excess to one, you take from another,” replied Mrs. Lownd, with the stern wisdom which experience teaches. Poor Isabel could say nothing further, but had feared greatly that the rations in Mrs. Mucklewort’s abode would be deficient. She now entered the cottage, and found the whole family at that moment preparing themselves for the consumption of a great Christmas banquet. Mrs. Mucklewort, whose temper was not always the best in the world, was radiant. The children were silent, open-eyed, expectant, and solemn. The lame aunt was in the act of transferring a large lump of beef, which seemed to be commingled in a most inartistic way with potatoes and cabbage, out of a pot on to the family dish. At any rate there was plenty; for no five appetites — had the five all been masculine, adult, and yet youthful — could, by any feats of strength, have emptied that dish at a sitting. And Isabel knew well that there had been pudding. She herself had sent the pudding; but that, as she was well aware, had not been allowed to abide its fate till this late hour of the day. “I’m glad you’re all so well employed,” said Isabel. “I thought you had done dinner long ago. I won’t stop a minute now.”
The old woman got up from her chair, and nodded her head, and held out her withered old hand to be shaken. The children opened their mouths wider than ever, and hoped there might be no great delay. The lame aunt curtseyed and explained the circumstances. “Beef, Miss Isabel, do take a mortal time t’ boil; and it ain’t no wise good for t’ bairns to have it any ways raw.” To this opinion Isabel gave her full assent, and expressed her gratification that the amount of beef should be sufficient to require so much cooking. Then the truth came out. “Muster Archer just sent us over from Rowdy’s a meal’s meat with a vengence; God bless him!” “God bless him!” crooned out the old woman, and the children muttered some unintelligible sound, as though aware that duty required them to express some Amen to the prayer of their elders. Now Rowdy was the butcher living at Grassington, some six miles away, — for at Kirkby Cliffe there was no butcher. Isabel smiled all round upon them sweetly, with her eyes full of tears, and then left the cottage without a word.
He had done this because she had expressed a wish that these people should be kindly treated, — had done it without a syllable spoken to her or to any one, — had taken trouble, sending all the way to Grassington for Mrs. Mucklewort’s beef! No doubt he had given other people beef, and had whispered no word of his kindness to any one at the rectory. And yet she had taken upon herself to rebuke him, because he had not cared for Christmas Day! As she walked along, silent, holding Mabel’s hand, it seemed to her that of all men he was the most perfect. She had rebuked him, and had then told him — with incredible falseness — that she did not like him; and after that, when he had proposed to her in the kindest, noblest manner, she had rejected him, — almost as though he had not been good enough for her! She felt now as though she would like to bite the tongue out of her head for such misbehavior.
“Was not that nice of him?” said Mabel. But Isabel could not answer the question. “I always thought he was like that,” continued the younger sister. “If he were my lover, I’d do anything he asked me, because he is so good-natured.”
“Don’t talk to me,” said Isabel. And Mabel, who comprehended something of the condition of her sister’s mind, did not say another word on their way back to the parsonage.
It was the rule of the house that on Christmas Day they should dine at four o’clock; — a rule which almost justified the very strong expression with which Maurice first offended the young lady whom he loved. To dine at one or two o’clock is a practice which has its recommendations. It suits the appetite, is healthy, and divides the day into two equal halves, so that no man so dining fancies that his dinner should bring to him an end of his usual occupations. And to dine at six, seven, or eight is well adapted to serve several purposes of life. It is convenient, as inducing that gentle lethargy which will sometimes follow the pleasant act of eating at a time when the work of the day is done; and it is both fashionable and comfortable. But to dine at four is almost worse than not to dine at all. The rule, however, existed at Kirkby Cliffe parsonage in regard to this one special day in the year, and was always obeyed.
On this occasion Isabel did not see her lover from the moment in which he left her at the church door till they met at the table. She had been with her mother, but her mother had said not a word to her about Maurice. Isabel knew very well that they two had walked home together from the church, and she had thought that her best chance lay in the possibility that he would have spoken of what had occurred during the walk. Had this been so, surely her mother would have told her; but not a word had been said; and even with her mother Isabel had been too shamefaced to ask a question. In truth, Isabel’s name had not been mentioned between them, nor had any allusion been made to what had taken place during the morning. Mrs. Lownd had been too wise and too wary, — too well aware of what was really due to her daughter, — to bring up the subject herself; and he had been silent, subdued, and almost sullen. If he could not get an acknowledgment of affection from the girl herself, he certainly would not endeavour to extract a cold compliance by the mother’s aid. Africa, and a disruption of all the plans of his life, would be better to him than that. But Mrs. Lownd knew very well how it was with him; knew how it was with them both; and was aware that in such a condition things should be allowed to arrange themselves. At dinner, both she and the rector were full of mirth and good humour, and Mabel, with great glee, told the story of Mrs. Muckelwort’s dinner. “I don’t want to destroy your pleasure,” she said, bobbing her head at Maurice; “but it did look so nasty! Beef should always be roast beef on Christmas Day.”
“I told the butcher it was to be roast beef,” said Maurice, sadly.
“I dare say the little Muckleworts would just as soon have it boiled,” said Mrs. Lownd. “Beef is beef to them, and a pot for boiling is an easy apparatus.”
“If you had beef, Miss Mab, only once or twice a year,” said her father, “you would not care whether it were roast or boiled.” But Isabel spoke not a word. She was most anxious to join the conversation about Mrs. Mucklewort, and would have liked much to give testimony to the generosity displayed in regard to quantity; but she found that she could not do it. She was absolutely dumb. Maurice Archer did speak, making, every now and then, a terrible effort to be jocose; but Isabel from first to last was silent. Only by silence could she refrain from a renewed deluge of tears.
In the evening two or three girls came in with their younger brothers, the children of farmers of the better class in the neighbourhood, and the usual attempts were made at jollity. Games were set on foot, in which even the rector joined, instead of going to sleep behind his book, and Mabel, still conscious of her sister’s wounds, did her very best to promote the sports. There was blindman’s-buff, and hide and seek, and snapdragon, and forfeits, and a certain game with music and chairs, — very prejudicial to the chairs, — in which it was everybody’s object to sit down as quickly as possible when the music stopped. In the game Isabel insisted on playing, because she could do that alone. But even to do this was too much for her. The sudden pause could hardly be made without a certain hilarity of spirit, and her spirits were unequal to any exertion. Maurice went through his work like a man, was blinded, did his forfeits, and jostled for the chairs with the greatest diligence; but in the midst of it all he, too, was as solemn as a judge, and never once spoke a single word to Isabel. Mrs. Lownd, who usually was not herself much given to the playing of games, did on this occasion make an effort, and absolutely consented to cry the forfeits; but Mabel was wonderfully quiet, so that the farmer’s daughters hardly perceived that there was anything amiss.
It came to pass, after a while, that Isabel had retreated to her room, — not for the night, as it was as yet hardly eight o’clock, — and she certainly would not disappear till the visitors had taken their departure, — a ceremony which was sure to take place with the greatest punctuality at ten, after an early supper. But she had escaped for a while, and in the meantime some frolic was going on which demanded the absence of one of the party from the room, in order that mysteries might be arranged of which the absent one should remain in ignorance. Maurice was thus banished, and desired to remain in desolation for the space of five minutes; but, just as he had taken up his position, Isabel descended with slow, solemn steps, and found him standing at her father’s study door. She was passing on, and had almost entered the drawing-room, when he called her. “Miss Lownd,” he said. Isabel stopped, but did not speak; she was absolutely beyond speaking. The excitement of the day had been so great, that she was all but overcome by it, and doubted, herself, whether she would be able to keep up appearances till the supper should be over, and she should be relieved for the night. “Would you let me say one word to you?” said Maurice. She bowed her head and went with him into the study.
Five minutes had been allowed for the arrangement of the mysteries, and at the end of the five minutes Maurice was authorized, by the rules of the game, to return to the room. But he did not come, and upon Mabel’s suggesting that possibly he might not be able to see his watch in the dark, she was sent to fetch him. She burst into the study, and there she found the truant and her sister, very close, standing together on the hearthrug. “I didn’t know you were here, Bell,” she exclaimed. Whereupon Maurice, as she declared afterwards, jumped round the table after her, and took her in his arms and kissed her. “But you must come,” said Mabel, who accepted the embrace with perfect goodwill.
“Of course you must. Do go, pray, and I’ll follow, — almost immediately.” Mabel perceived at once that her sister had altogether recovered her voice.
“I’ll tell ’em you’re coming,” said Mabel, vanishing.
“You must go now,” said Isabel. “They’ll all be away soon, and then you can talk about it.” As she spoke, he was standing with his arm round her waist, and Isabel Lownd was the happiest girl in all Craven.
Mrs. Lownd knew all about it from the moment in which Maurice Archer’s prolonged absence had become cause of complaint among the players. Her mind had been intent upon the matter, and she had become well aware that it was only necessary that the two young people should be alone together for a few moments. Mabel had entertained great hopes, thinking, however, that perhaps three or four years must be passed in melancholy gloomy doubts before the path of true love could be made to run smooth; but the light had shone upon her as soon as she saw them standing together. The parson knew nothing about it till the supper was over. Then, when the front door was open, and the farmer’s daughters had been cautioned not to get themselves more wet than they could help in the falling snow, Maurice said a word to his future father-in-law. “She has consented at last, sir. I hope you have nothing to say against it.”
“Not a word,” said the parson, grasping the young man’s hand, and remembering as he did so, the extension of the time over which that phrase “at last” was supposed to spread itself.
Maurice had been promised some further opportunity of “talking about it,” and of course claimed a fulfillment of the promise. There was a difficulty about it, as Isabel, having now been assured of her happiness, was anxious to talk about it all to her mother rather than to him; but he was imperative, and there came at last for him a quarter of an hour of delicious triumph in that very spot on which he had been so scolded for saying that Christmas was a bore. “You were so very sudden,” said Isabel, excusing herself for her conduct in the morning.
“But you did love me?”
“If I do now, that ought to be enough for you. But I did, and I’ve been so unhappy since; and I thought that, perhaps, you would never speak to me again. But it was all your fault; you were so sudden. And then you ought to have asked papa first, — you know you ought. But, Maurice, you will promise me one thing. You won’t ever again say that Christmas Day is a bore!”