Selwick Hall, December the xxviii.
“Well, Edith,” quoth Aunt Joyce to me last night, “thou hast had a rare time of it!”
“I have, Aunt,” said I: “yet I warrant you, I was not sorry to have Sunday come at after.”
Eh, but I was weary when I gat me abed on Christmas night, and it were ten o’clock well told ere I so did. Helen and Milisent were later yet: but Mother packed me off, saying that growing maids should not tarry up late: and when I found me withinside the blankets, I warrant you, but I was thankful!
I reckon, being now something rested, I must set down all that we did: and first for Christmas Eve.
Hal and Anstace came early (their childre were bidden to Keswick unto a childre’s gathering): then about three o’ the clock, Master and Mistress Lewthwaite, with Alice, Nym, Jack, and Robin (and by the same token, Nym played the despairing gallant that I could not choose but laugh, his hat awry and his ruff all o’ one side, and a bombasted (padded) doublet that made him look twice his own size). And methought it a sore pity to miss Blanche, that was wont to be merriest of us all (when as she were in a good humour) and so Alice said unto me, while the water stood in her eyes. A little while after come Doctor and Mistress Meade, and their Isabel: then old Mistress Rigg, and her three tall daughters, Mrs Martha, Mrs Katherine, and Mrs Anne: then Farmer Benson and his dame, and their Margaret and Agnes; and Master Coward, with their Tom and Susan; and Master and Mistress Armstrong, with their Ben, Nicholas, and Gillian. Last of all come Master Park and Master Murthwaite, both together, and their mistresses, with the young folk,—Hugh and Austin Park, and Dudley, Faith, and Temperance Murthwaite. So our four-and-thirty guests, with ourselves, thirteen, made in all a goodly company of forty-seven.
First, when all were come in and had doffed their out-door raiment, and greeting over, we sat us down to supper: where one of the barons of beef, and plum-porridge, and apple-pies, and chicken-pies, and syllabub, and all manner of good things: but in very deed I might scarce eat my supper for laughing at Nym Lewthwaite, that was sat right over against me, and did scarce taste aught, but spent the time in gazing lack-a-daisically on our Helen, and fetching great sighs with his hand laid of his heart. Supper o’er, we first had snap-dragon, then hot cockles, then blindman’s buff, then hunt the weasel. We pausing to take breath at after, Father called us to sing; so we gathered all in the great chamber, and first Mynheer sang a Dutch song, and then Sir Robert and Mistress Martin a rare part-song, touching the beauties of spring-time. Then sang Farmer Benson, Master Armstrong, and Ben and Agnes, “The hunt is up,” which was delightsome to hear. Then Aunt Joyce would sing “Pastime with good company,” and would needs have Milisent and me and Robin Lewthwaite to help her. After this Jack Lewthwaite and Nick Armstrong made us to laugh well, by singing “The cramp is in my purse full sore.” The music ended with a sweet glee of Faith and Temperance Murthwaite (something sober, but I know it liked Father none the worse) and the old English song of “Summer is ycumen in,” sung of Father and Sir Robert, our Helen, and Isabel Meade. Then we sat around the fire till rear-supper, and had “Questions and Commands,” and cried forfeits, and wound up with “I love my love.” And some were rare witty and mirthful in that last, particularly Sir Robert, who did treat his love to oranges and orfevery in the Orcades (Hebrides) (and Father said he marvelled how he gat them there), and Aunt Joyce, who said her love was Benjamin Breakrope, and he came from the Tower of Babel. Then, after that, fell we a-telling stories: and a right brave one of Father, out of one of his old Chronicles, how Queen Philippa gat a pardon from her lord for the six gentlemen of Calais: and a merry, of Dr Meade, touching King John and the Abbot of Canterbury, and the three questions that the King did ask at the Abbot’s gardener (he playing his master), and the witty answers he made unto him. Then would Master Armstrong tell a tale; and an awesome ghost-story it were, that made my flesh creep, and Milisent whispered in mine ear that she should sleep never a wink at after it.
“Eh!” saith Farmer Benson, and fetched an heavy sigh: “ghosts be ill matter of an house.”
“Saw you e’er a ghost, Farmer Benson?” saith Dudley Murthwaite.
“Nay, lad,” quoth he: “I’ve had too much good daylight work in my time to lie awake a-seeing ghosts when night cometh.”