A Tale of a Lonely Parish

by F. Marion Crawford

John went to bed in his old room at the vicarage protesting that he had enjoyed the first day of his holiday immensely. As he blew out the light, he thought suddenly how often in that very room he had gone to bed dreaming about the lady in black and composing verses to her, till somehow the Greek terminations would get mixed up with the Latin roots, the quantities all seemed to change places, and he used to fall asleep with a delicious half romantic sense of happiness always unfulfilled yet always present. And now at last it began to be fulfilled in earnest; he had met the lady in black at last, had spent nearly half a day in her company and was more persuaded than ever that she was really and truly his ideal. He did not go to sleep so soon as in the old days, and he was sorry to go to sleep at all; he wanted to enjoy all his delicious recollections of that afternoon before he slept and, as he recapitulated the events which had befallen him and recalled each expression of the face that had charmed him and every intonation of the charmer's voice, he felt that he had never been really happy before, that no amount of success at Cambridge could give him half the delight he had experienced during one hour in the old Billingsfield church, and that altogether life anywhere else was not worth living. To-morrow he would see Mrs. Goddard again, and the next day and the day after that and then—"bother the future!" ejaculated John, and went to sleep.

He awoke early, roused by the loud clanging of the Christmas bells, and looking out he saw that the day was fine and cold and bright as Christmas day should be, and generally is. The hoar frost was frozen into fantastic shapes upon his little window, the snow was clinging to the yew branches outside and the robins were hopping and chirping over the thin crust of frozen snow that just covered the ground. The road was hard and brown as on the previous day, and the ice in the park would probably bear. Perhaps Mrs. Goddard would skate in the afternoon between the services, but then—Juxon would be there. "Never mind Juxon," quoth John to himself, "it is Christmas day!"

At the vicarage and elsewhere, all over the land, those things were done which delight the heart of Englishmen at the merry season. Everybody shook hands with everybody else, everybody cried "Merry Christmas!" to his neighbour in the street, with an intonation as though he were saying something startlingly new and brilliant which had never been said before. Every labourer who had a new smock-frock put it on, and those who had none had at least a bit of new red worsted comforter about their throats and began the day by standing at their doors in the cold morning, smoking a "ha'p'orth o' shag" in a new clay pipe, greeting each other across the village street. Muggins, who had spent a portion of the night in exchanging affectionate Christmas wishes with the tombstones in the churchyard, appeared fresh and ruddy at an early hour, clad in the long black coat and tall hat which he was accustomed to wear when he drove Mr. Boosey's fly on great festivals. Most of the cottages in the single street sported a bit of holly in their windows, and altogether the appearance of Billingsfield was singularly festive and mirthful. At precisely ten minutes to eleven the vicar and Mrs. Ambrose, accompanied by John, issued from the vicarage and went across the road by the private path to the church. As they entered the porch Mr. Reid, who stood solemnly tolling the small bell, popularly nicknamed the "Ting-tang," and of which the single rope passed down close to the south door, vouchsafed John a sour smile of recognition. John felt as though he had come home. Mrs. Goddard and Nellie appeared a moment afterwards and took their seats in the pew traditionally belonging to the cottage, behind that of the squire who was always early, and the sight of whose smoothly brushed hair and brown beard was a constant source of satisfaction to Mrs. Ambrose. John and Mrs. Ambrose sat on the opposite side of the aisle, but John's eyes strayed very frequently towards Mrs. Goddard; so frequently indeed that she noticed it and leaned far back in her seat to avoid his glance. Whereupon John blushed and felt that the vicar, who was reading the Second Lesson, had probably noticed his distraction. It was hard to realise that two years and a half had passed since he had sat in that same pew; perhaps, however, the presence of Mrs. Goddard helped him to understand the lapse of time. But for her it would have been very hard; for the vicar's voice sounded precisely as it used to sound; Mrs. Ambrose had not lost her habit of removing one glove and putting it into her prayer book as a mark while she found the hymn in the accompanying volume; the bright decorations looked as they looked years ago above the organ and round the chancel; from far down the church, just before the sermon, came the old accustomed sound of small boys shuffling their hobnailed shoes upon the stone floor and the audible guttural whisper of the churchwarden admonishing them to "mind the stick;" the stained-glass windows admitted the same pleasant light as of yore—all was unchanged. But Mrs. Goddard and Nellie occupied the cottage pew, and their presence alone was sufficient to mark to John the fact that he was now a man.

The service was sympathetic to John Short. He liked the simplicity of it, even the rough singing of the choir, as compared with the solemn and magnificent musical services of Trinity College Chapel. But it seemed very long before it was all over and he was waiting for Mrs. Goddard outside the church door.

There were more greetings, more "Merry Christmas" and "Many happy returns." Mrs. Goddard looked more charming than ever and was quite as cordial as on the previous evening.

"How much better it all looked this morning by daylight," she said.

"I think it looked very pretty last night," answered John. "There is nothing so delightful as Christmas decorations, is there?"

"Perhaps you will come down next year and help us again?" suggested Mrs.
Goddard.

"Yes—well, I might come at Easter, for that matter," answered the young man, who after finding it impossible to visit Billingsfield during two years and a half, now saw no difficulty whatever in the way of making two visits in the course of six months. "Do you still decorate at Easter?" he asked.

"Oh yes—do you think you can come?" she said pleasantly. "I thought you were to be very busy just then."