“There’s a stile somewhere that leads right past your mother’s cottage, and then we can get across Higgins’ fields.”
“If there is a cottage I shall be glad of five minutes’ rest by the fire-side,” says Cecil who is beginning to get decidedly “blown.”
“I was just thinking what an awfully lonely road this was.”
“Jack Brown is a surly fellow,” whispers Bertie in his ear, but not so low but that the man catches the last words.
“Surly! And who wouldn’t be, young master, I’d like to know, in my place? Didn’t the Squire have me up for poaching, and didn’t I get three weeks in jail along of snaring a few worthless pheasants? Much he or anyone would have cared if my old mother had starved the while!”
“For shame!” Bertie’s wrath is making him quite energetic. “As if mother and Mildred didn’t go to see the old woman nearly every day, and make sure she wanted for nothing.”
“Well, well,” interrupts Cecil, “don’t rake up bye-gones on Christmas Eve of all days in the year. Forgive and forget—peace and goodwill—that’s what the bells always seem to me to be saying. I say, my friend, I’m sure your Mother would be willing to let the young master sit by her fire for five minutes, after he’s nearly got himself killed—and buried too—riding to Appleton to do his sister and cousin a good turn.”
A shadow of a smile lurks on Jack’s grim visage at this appeal, and he proceeds to lead the way across a difficult “hog-backed” stile, over which he helps to lift Bertie with more gentleness than might be expected. Then striding before them through the snow, which is more even, and easy to wade through in the open field, he presently stops at the door of a little thatched cottage which is opened by a tidy old woman.
Bertie is soon established in her own high-backed wooden chair by the fire, drinking hot if somewhat hay-scented tea, and obtaining great relief from the attentions his friend is now better able to bestow upon the injured foot. Meanwhile this is becoming a very sad Christmas Eve to the anxious watchers at Edenhurst. The Squire has returned home, puzzled and half incredulous at the confused report of Master Bertie’s disappearance which has reached him, but when the snow-soaked saddle and the riderless pony have been shown him, he too grows seriously alarmed, and without waiting to change his wet things sets off in the direction of Appleton.
Other messengers have already been despatched but the hours pass by and no news is obtained, no one happening to think of the short cut and old Mrs. Brown’s cottage. Even the bells are mute—the villagers cannot bear to ring them when their dear lady is in such trouble. She is trying hard to force herself to believe that nothing can be so very wrong—it is foolish to be so over-anxious.