waved their whips triumphantly, the little ponies rattled bravely under the sycamores, towards Christmas.
In the late afternoon of the 24th, when dust was rising under the hazel brake, I was walking with Lettie. All among the mesh of twigs overhead was tangled a dark red sky. The boles of the trees grew denser — almost blue.
Tramping down the riding we met two boys, fifteen or sixteen years old. Their clothes were largely patched with tough cotton moleskin; scarves were knotted round their throats, and in their pockets rolled tin bottles full of tea, and the white knobs of their knotted snap-bags.
“Why!” said Lettie. “Are you going to work on Christmas eve?”
“It looks like it, don’t it?” said the elder.
“And what time will you be coming back?”
“About ‘alf-past tow.”
“Christmas morning!”
“You’ll be able to look out for the herald Angels and the Star,” said I.
“They’d think we was two dirty little ‘uns,” said the younger lad, laughing.
“They’ll ‘appen ‘a done before we get up ter th’ top,” added the elder boy, “an’ they’ll none venture down th’ shaft.”
“If they did,” put in the other, “you’d ha’e ter bath ’em after. I’d gi’e ’em a bit o’ my pasty.”
“Come on,” said the elder sulkily.
They tramped off, slurring their heavy boots.
“Merry Christmas!” I called after them.
“In th’ mornin’,” replied the elder.
“Same to you,” said the younger, and he began to sing with a tinge of bravado.
“In the fields with their flocks abiding. They lay on the dewy ground —”
“Fancy,” said Lettie, “those boys are working for me!” We were all going to the party at Highclose. I happened to go into the kitchen about half-past seven. The lamp was turned low, and Rebecca sat in the shadows. On the table, in the light of the lamp, I saw a glass vase with five or six very beautiful Christmas roses.
“Hullo, Becka, who’s sent you these?” said I.
“They’re not sent,”. replied Rebecca from the depth of the shadow, with suspicion of tears in her voice.
“Why! I never saw them in the garden.”
“Perhaps not. But I’ve watched them these three weeks, and kept them under glass.”
“For Christmas? They are beauties. I thought someone must have sent them to you.”
“It’s little as ‘as ever been sent me,” replied Rebecca, “an’ less as will be.”
“Why — what’s the matter?”
“Nothing. Who’m I, to have anything the matter! Nobody — nor ever was, nor ever will be. And I’m getting old as well.”
“Something’s upset you, Becky.”
“What does it matter if it has? What are my feelings? A bunch o’ fal-derol flowers as a gardener clips off wi’ never a thought is preferred before mine as I’ve fettled after this three-week. I can sit at home to keep my flowers company — nobody wants ’em.”
I remembered that Lettie was wearing hot-house flowers; she was excited and full of the idea of the party at Highclose; I could imagine her quick “Oh no, thank you, Rebecca. I have had a spray sent to me —”
“Never mind, Becky,” said I, “she is excited tonight.”
“An’ I’m easy forgotten.”
“So are we all, Becky — tant mieux.”
At Highclose Lettie made a stir. Among the little belles of the countryside, she was decidedly the most distinguished. She was brilliant, moving as if in a drama. Leslie was enraptured, ostentatious in his admiration, proud of being so well infatuated. They looked into each other’s eyes when they met, both triumphant, excited, blazing arch looks at one another. Lettie was enjoying her public demonstration immensely; it exhilarated her into quite a vivid love for him. He was magnificent in response. Meanwhile, the honoured lady of the house, pompous and ample, sat aside with my mother conferring her patronage on the latter amiable little woman, who smiled sardonically and watched Lettie. It was a splendid party; it was brilliant, it was dazzling.
I danced with several ladies, and honourably kissed each under the mistletoe — except that two of them kissed me first, it was all done in a most correct manner.
“You wolf,” said Miss Wookey archly. “I believe you are a wolf — a veritable rôdeur des femmes — and you look such a lamb too — such a dear.”
“Even my bleat reminds you of Mary’s pet.”
“But you are not my pet — at least — it is well that my Golaud doesn’t hear you —”
“If he is so very big —” said I.
“He is really; he’s beefy. I’ve engaged myself to him, somehow or other. One never knows how one does those things, do they?”
“I couldn’t speak from experience,” said I.
“Cruel man! I suppose I felt Christmasy, and I’d just been reading Maeterlinck — and he really is big.”
“Who?” I asked.
“Oh — He, of course. My Golaud. I can’t help admiring men who are a bit avoirdupoisy. It is unfortunate they can’t dance.”
“Perhaps fortunate,” said I.
“I can see you hate him. Pity I didn’t think to ask him if he danced — before —”
“Would it have influenced you very much?”
“Well — of course — one can be free to dance all the more with the really nice men whom one never marries.”
“Why not?”
“Oh — you can only marry one —”
“Of course.”
“There he is — he’s coming for me! Oh, Frank, you leave me to the tender mercies of the world at large. I thought you’d forgotten me, dear.”
“I thought the same,” replied her Golaud, a great fat fellow with a childish bare face. He smiled awesomely, and one never knew what he meant to say.
We drove home in the early Christmas morning. Lettie, warmly wrapped in her cloak, had had a little stroll with her lover in the shrubbery. She was still brilliant, flashing in her movements. He, as he bade her good-bye, was almost beautiful in his grace and his low musical
