makes you wish it, now?’
‘I hate this place and everybody in it, excepting you. I suppose it’s Christmas makes me think of the old farm.’
‘I remember you said once that you thought you would like a town.’
‘Ah, I said so then. I should love to see them meadows again. The snow when it melts there doesn’t go to dirty, filthy slush as it does in Brighton. But it’s the people here I can’t bear. I could fly at that Poulter and that Goacher at times, no matter if I was had up for it.’
‘You forget what a hard life you had with Mrs. Wootton at the Hatch.’
‘No, I don’t forget. She had a rough tongue, but she was one of our set. She got as good as she gave. She spoke her mind, and I spoke mine, and there was an end to it. But this lot—they are so stuck-up and stuck-round. I never saw such folk in our parts—they make me feel as if I were the dirt under their feet.’
‘Never mind them. I have more to put up with than you have. You know all; you may be sure, if I could help it, I shouldn’t be here.’
‘I do know all. I shouldn’t grieve if that stepmother of yours drank herself to death. O Lord, when I see what you have to go through I am ashamed of myself. But you were made one way and I another. You dear, patient creature!’
‘It’s half-past eleven. It is time to go to bed.’
They went to their cold lean-to garrets under the slates.
Miss Toller lay awake for hours. This, then, was Christmas Eve, one more Christmas Eve. She recollected another Christmas Eve twenty years gone. She went out to a party, she and her father and mother and sister; mother and sister now dead. Somebody walked home with her that clear, frosty night. Strange! Miss Toller, Brighton lodging-house keeper, always in black gown—no speck of colour even on Sundays—whose life was spent before sinks and stoves, through whose barred kitchen windows the sun never shone, had wandered in the land of romance; in her heart also Juliet’s flame had burned. A succession of vivid pictures of her girlhood passed before her: of the garden, of the farmyard and the cattle in it, of the river, of the pollard willows sloping over it, of Barton Sluice covered with snow—how still it was at that moment—the dog has been brought inside because of the cold, and is asleep in the living-room—her father, is he awake? the tall clock is ticking by the window, she could hear its slow beats, and as she listened she fell asleep, but was presently awakened by the bells proclaiming the birth in a manger. She remembered that Mrs. Poulter had to be called at seven that she might go to an early service. She hastily put on her clothes and knocked at the door, but Mrs. Poulter decided that, as it was freezing, it would not be safe to venture, and having ordered a cup of tea in her bedroom at half-past eight, turned round and fell asleep again.
It was a busy day. The lodgers, excepting Miss Everard, went to church in the morning, but Miss Toller and Helen had their hands full. In the afternoon Miss Toller was obliged to tell Helen the unpleasant news.
‘I don’t want to go, but I must not offend them.’
‘But you are going?’
‘I can’t get out of it.’
Helen did not speak another word. About half-past six Miss Toller put on her best clothes and appeared in the dining-room. Helen punctually served the dinner. A seat was allotted to Miss Toller at the bottom of the table opposite Miss Everard and next to Mr. Goacher, who faced Mrs. Poulter. Mrs. Mudge’s wine was produced, and Mr. Goacher graciously poured out a glass for Miss Toller.
‘At this festive season, ma’am.’
A second glass was not offered, although Mrs. Mudge’s supply was liberal. Mr. Goacher did not stint himself.
‘There are beautiful churches in Northamptonshire, I believe, Miss Toller?’ said the reverend gentleman after the third glass.
‘Yes, very beautiful.’
‘Ah! that is delightful. To whatever school in the Establishment we belong, we cannot be insensible to the harmony between it and our dear old ivy-clad towers and the ancient gravestones. I love old country churches. I often wish my lot had been cast in a simple rural parish.’
Miss E. ‘Why do you not go?’
Mr. G. ‘My unfortunate throat; and besides, I believe I am really better fitted for an urban population.’
Miss E. ‘In what way?’
Mr. G. ‘Well, you see, Miss Everard, questions present themselves to our hearers in towns which do not naturally occur to the rustic mind—questions with which, if I may say so, I am perhaps fitted to deal. The rustic mind needs nothing more than a simple presentation of the Gospel.’
Miss E. ‘What kind of questions?’
Mr. G. ‘You must be aware that our friend Mrs. Poulter, for instance, accustomed as she is to the mental stimulus of Southsea and Brighton, takes an interest in topics unfamiliar to an honest agriculturist who is immersed all the week in beeves and ploughs and swine.’
Mr. Goacher had intended that Mrs. Poulter should hear that her name was mentioned.
Mrs. P. ‘What are you saying about me?’
Miss E. ‘Nothing to your discredit. We were talking about town and country parishes, and Mr. Goacher maintains that in a town parish a clergyman of superior intellect is indispensable.’
Mrs. P. ‘But what has that to do with me?’
Miss E. ‘Oh, we merely brought you forward as an example. You have moved in cultured society, and he is of opinion that he is better fitted to preach to people like you than to farmers.’
Mrs. M. ‘Culture, fiddle-de-dee! Afore I was married, I lived in the country. Five-and-twenty years I lived in it. Don’t tell me. A farmer with five hundred acres of land, or even a cowman who has to keep a dozen cows in order and look after his own garden, wants more brains than any of your fine town-folk. Ah, and our old parson had a good bit more than any one of these half-witted curates such as you see here in Brighton playing their popish antics in coloured clothes.’
Mrs. Poulter was very angry.
‘Mrs. Mudge,’ she said, speaking to nobody in particular, and looking straight before her, ‘has chosen to-day of all days on which to insult, I will not call it my faith, but the faith of the Catholic Church.’
Mr. Goacher at once intervened with his oil-can.
‘My leanings, Mrs. Poulter, have latterly at any rate been in your direction—without excesses, of course; but both you and I admit that the Church is ample enough to embrace the other great parties so long as there is agreement in essentials. Unity, unity! Mrs. Mudge’s ardour, we must confess, proves her sincerity.’
Mr. Goacher took another glass of Mrs. Mudge’s wine. After the dessert of almonds and raisins, figs, apples, and oranges—also supplied by Mrs. Mudge—Miss Toller rose and said she hoped she might be excused, but Mr. Goacher pressed her to stay. He had offered to entertain the company with a trifling humorous composition of his own. She consented, and he recited a parody on ‘To be or not to be,’ descriptive of a young lady’s perplexity at having received an offer of marriage. When it was over Miss Toller departed. It was now nine o’clock, and she found that the dinner things had been washed up, and that Helen had gone to bed. The next morning she went downstairs a little later than usual, but there was no Helen. She ran up to her bedroom. It was empty; she had slept there that night, but her box was packed and directed, and there was a paper on it to say that the carrier would call for it. Miss Toller was confounded. She would have rushed to the station, but the first train had gone. She was roused by the milkman at the area door, and hastened down to light the fire. At first she resolved to excuse Helen’s absence on the ground that it was Boxing Day, but she would almost certainly not return, and after breakfast Miss Toller went upstairs