Windyridge

by W. Riley

CHAPTER VIII

CHRISTMAS DAY AT WINDYRIDGE

Christmas has come and gone, and so far not a flake of snow has fallen. Rain there has been in abundance, and in the distance dense banks of fog, but no frost to speak of, and none of the atmospheric conditions I have always associated with a northern Yuletide.

Christmas Day itself, however, proved enjoyable if not wildly exciting. The air was "soft," as the natives say, and the sun was shining mistily when I stepped into the garden, now bare of attractions save for the Christmas roses, whose pure white petals bowed their heads in kindly greeting to the wrinkled face of Earth, their mother. The starlings were whistling as cheerily as if spring was come, and a solitary missel-thrush was diligently practising a Christmas ditty on the bare branches of the hawthorn.

"A merry Christmas, Mother Hubbard!" I called through the open window, with such unwonted vigour that the old lady, whose toilet was not completed, flung a shawl hastily around her shoulders, only to be reassured by my hearty laugh.

Over the breakfast table we drew up the day's programme. It was no difficult task. Mother Hubbard would occupy the morning in preparing the great dinner, and from these preparations I was to be rigorously excluded. To my old friend this was a holy-day, but one to be marked by a sacrificial offering of exceptional magnitude, she being the High Priestess who alone might enter into the mysteries; but I did not mind, seeing that I was to be allowed to do my part in consuming the sacrifice.

The afternoon was to be devoted to rest, and in the evening we were to go to Farmer Goodenough's, where the youngsters were already wild in anticipation of the glories of a Christmas-tree.

So I was dismissed to "make the beds" and dust my own room, and having done this I went to church in the temple which is not made with hands. I had intended going to Fawkshill, but the angels of God met me on the way, and turned me aside into the fields which lead to Marsland. When I reached the wood I knelt on the soft, thick carpet of fallen leaves and said my prayers amid the solitude, with the running brook for music and all Nature for priest.

What a loud voice Nature has to those who have ears to hear, yet withal how sweet and forceful. They tell us that if our faculties were less dull we should hear in every stem and twig and blade of grass the throbbing of the engines and the whir and clatter of the looms which go on day and night unceasingly. It is well for us that we are not so highly tuned, but it is also well if our spiritual perceptions are keen enough to find tongues in trees and sermons in stones, and to interpret their language. I am but a dunce as yet, but I have learned one thing since I came to this northern school—I have learned to listen, and I am beginning to understand something of what God has to teach us by the mouth of his dumb prophets. Anyhow, I went home with peace in my heart and goodwill to all men; also with a mighty hunger.

The menu was roast turkey and plum pudding, to be followed by cheese and dessert, but on this occasion there was no "following." Imagine two domesticated women, and one of them—the little one—with the appetite and capacity of a pet canary, seated opposite a bird like that the squire had sent us, which had meat enough upon it to serve a Polytechnic party; and imagine the same couple, having done their duty womanfully upon the bird, confronted with a plum pudding of the dimensions Mother Hubbard's sense of proportion had judged necessary, and one of the twain compelled either to eat to repletion or to wound the feelings of the pudding's author—and then say whether in your opinion cheese and dessert were not works of supererogation!

After we had cleared the things away and drawn our rocking chairs up to the fire, the old clock ticked us off to sleep in five minutes; and then that part of me which it is not polite to mention took its revenge for having been made to work overtime on a holiday. I dreamed!

I was running away from Chelsea in the dead of night, clothed in my night-dress and holding my bedroom slippers in my hand. A great fear was upon me that I should be discovered and frustrated in my purpose; and as I strove to turn the heavy key in the lock my heart thumped against my chest and the perspiration poured down my face. At first the bolt resisted my efforts, but at length it shot back with a great noise, which awakened Madam Rusty, who opened her bedroom window as I rushed out on to the pavement and cried "Murder!" at the same time emptying the contents of the water jug upon me.

Fear gave wings to my feet and I fled, followed by a howling crowd which grew bigger every moment and gained on me rapidly. By this time I realised that I was carrying madam's best silver tea-pot under my arm, and I wanted to drop it but dared not.

Then I found myself in the lane at Windyridge, with the squire dressed as a policeman keeping back the crowd, whilst Mother Hubbard, without her bodice, as I had seen her in the morning, took my hand—and the tea-pot—and hurried me towards the cottage. It was just in sight when Madam Rusty jumped out of a doorway in her night-cap and dressing-gown and shouted 'Bo!' waving her arms about wildly, and as I hesitated which way to turn she flung herself upon me and seized my hair in both her hands. As I screamed wildly, I saw the Cynic leap the wall in his golf suit, and woke just in time to save myself considerable embarrassment.

"What was it, love?" inquired Mother Hubbard, who had been aroused by my screams and was genuinely alarmed.

"I don't quite know," I replied; "but I think the turkey was quarrelsome and could not quite hit it with the plum pudding."

Mother Hubbard composed herself to sleep again; and in order to prevent a repetition of my unhappy experience I got my books and proceeded to do my accounts.

I have not been idle by any means during these months, and my balance is quite satisfactory. I have painted quite a number of miniatures, and have prepared and sold several floral designs for book covers and decorative purposes. I see plainly that I am not likely to starve if health is vouchsafed to me, and I was never more contented in my life. I wonder, though, what it really is that makes me so. It cannot be sufficiency of work merely, for that was never lacking in the London days; and as for friends, I have, besides Mother Hubbard, only Farmer Goodenough and the squire, and he is away and likely to be for months. I think it is the sense of "aliveness" that makes me happy. Some folk would call my life mere existence, but I feel as if I never really lived until now; and I hanker after neither theatres, nor whist-drives, nor picture-shows, nor parties.

Parties! Why, we have parties in Windyridge, and the motherkin and I went to one that evening. We put on our best bibs and tuckers—not our very best, but I wore my blue voile with the oriental trimmings which even Rose used to admit set off my figure to advantage, and Mother Hubbard donned the famous black satin, and added to its glories the soft Shetland shawl which I had given her that morning.

Tea was prepared in the spacious kitchen, which had room enough and to spare for the fifteen people of all ages who were assembled there. It is a kitchen lifted bodily out of a story book, without one single alteration. The room is low, so that Farmer Goodenough touches the beams quite easily when he raises his hand, and his head only just clears the hams which are suspended from them; and it is panelled all the way round in oak. There are oak doors, oak cupboards, oak settles and tables, and an oak dresser, all with the polish of old age upon them and with much quaint carving; all of which is calculated to drive a connoisseur to covetousness and mental arithmetic. An immense fire roared up the great chimney, and its flames were reflected in the polished case of the mahogany grandfather's clock, which seemed to me rather out of place amongst so much oak, but which, with slow dignity, ticked off the time in one corner.

On the far side of the room, near the deeply recessed window, was the Christmas-tree—a huge tree for that low room, and gay with glittering glass ornaments in many grotesque shapes, brightly coloured toys, and wax candles, as yet unlighted.

The younger members of the party were gathered near it in a little group, whispering excitedly, and pointing out objects of delight with every one of which each individual had made himself familiar hours before.

Grandpa Goodenough, a hale old man of eighty, and to be distinguished from Grandfather Goodenough, his son, smoked a long clay pipe from his place on the settle near the hearth, and smiled on everybody. His daughter-in-law, who looked much too young to be a grandmother, bustled about in the scullery, being assisted in her activities by her eldest daughter, Ruth, and her son Ben's wife, Susie, and obstructed by her husband who, with a sincere desire to be useful, contrived to be always in the most inconvenient place at the most awkward time.

Mother Hubbard and I had been invited to step into the parlour, but preferred the more homely atmosphere of the kitchen, so we took our seats on the settle, opposite to that occupied by Grandpa.

By and by tea was ready and we were instructed to "pull our chairs up" and "reach to." What a time we had! If tables ever do groan that one ought to have done so, for it had a heavy load which we were all expected to lighten, but nobody seemed to think it might be necessary to press anybody to eat.

"Now you know you're all welcome," said Farmer Goodenough heartily, when the youngest grandchild had asked what I took to be a blessing. "We're not allus botherin' folks to have some more when there's plenty before 'em, an' all they've got to do is to reach out for 't; but if you don't all have a good tea it's your own fault, an' don't blame me. 'Let us eat, drink, an' be merry,' as t' Owd Book bids us."

The way the ham disappeared was a revelation to me. Farmer Goodenough stood to carve, and after a while took off his coat, apparently in order that he might be able to mop his face with his shirt sleeves and so not seriously interrupt his operations. Plates followed each other in unbroken succession, until at last the good man threw down the knife and fork and pushed back his chair.

"Well, this beats all!" he said. "Amos, lad, thee take hold. Thou's had a fair innings: give thy dad a chance."

Where the little Goodenoughs put the ham and the sponge cake, the tarts and the trifle, the red jelly and the yellow jelly and the jelly with the pine-apple in it I do not pretend to know. They expanded visibly, and when the youngest grandchild, a cherubic infant of three, leaned back and sighed, and whispered with tears in his voice, "Reggie can't eat no more, muvver," I felt relieved.

It was over at last and the table cleared in a twinkling. Ben whisked away the remnants of the ham into the larder. The women folk carried the crockery into the scullery, and whilst they were engaged in washing it up the boys disappeared into remote places with the fragments of the feast, and Mother Hubbard swept the crumbs away and folded the cloth.

"Now," said Reggie, with another little sigh, but with just a suspicion of sunshine in his eyes, "now we'se goin' to p'ay, an 'ave ze pwesents off ze Kwismastwee."

And so we did. Amos, as the eldest son at home, lit the candles, and Grandpa distributed the gifts, which were insignificant enough from the monetary point of view, but weighted in every case with the affection and goodwill of the burly farmer and his wife. There was even a box of chocolates for me, and with its aid I succeeded in winning the heart of the melancholy Reggie.

Then came the games. I wish Rose and the boarders at No. 8 could have seen the demure Miss Holden of former days walking round and round a big circle, one hand in Reggie's and the other clasped by a red-cheeked farmer, whilst a dozen voices sang, and hers as loudly as any:

"The farmer's dog was in the yard,
And Bingo was his name-O!"

Then came the mad scramble of "Shy Widow" and the embarrassments of the "Postman's Knock," though nobody had letters for me, except Reggie, who had one—very sticky and perfumed with chocolate—and Susie's little daughter, Maud, who gave me three, very shyly, but accompanied by an affectionate hug, which I returned. After this, crackers, with all their accompaniments of paper caps and aprons, and by the time these had been worn and exchanged and torn the youngsters were clamouring for supper. Supper! Ye gods!

When this repast was ended and the younger members of the party had been packed off to bed—for only Mother Hubbard and I were to leave the farmer's hospitable home that night—some of the grown-ups proposed a dance.

Grandpa shook his head in protest. "Nay, nay," he said in his thin, piping voice; "I don't hold wi' dancin'. Never did. You were never browt up to dance, Reuben, you weren't."

"Reyt enough, father," responded his son, "but you know things has changed sin' I were a lad. You remember what t' Owd Book says; I don't just rightly call t' words to mind, but summat about t' owd order changin'. We mun let t' young uns have a bit of a fling."

"They danced in t' Bible, grandpa," said Rebecca saucily.

"Well, they may ha' done," rejoined the old man, retiring to the settle; "but I weren't browt up i' that way, an' your father weren't neither. I were allus taught 'at it were a sort of a devil's game, were dancing."

However, dance they did, and I played for them, doing my best with the crazy old box-o'-music in the parlour; and as I glanced through the open door I saw that Grandpa was following it all with great interest, beating time the while, in uncertain fashion, with head and hand.