Miles was carried away by her enthusiasm. She spoke as pilgrims speak viewing the promised land, as artists have spoken all down the ages, seeing herself the servant of this beautiful and gracious house of her imagination, walking in finely appointed rooms, perpetually serving. A certain kindling vitality informed the most commonplace phrase that she employed. To her, that house of perfection was the flawless poem, the astounding canvas, the actual work of art.
Miles let her talk. She recalled to him a friend of his own, a man of delicate perception and artistry who occupied himself in designing suburban houses, in violent contra-distinction to the mass of jerry-builders who were defiling the countryside from Newcastle-on-Tyne to Cornwall. He made them beautiful, these little surburban villas, that would be regarded by their owners purely from the points of view of cheapness and convenience. There was, he saw, the same root in all these people, lowly or ambitious, a root he had long since discovered in Brand.
Field continued, “As a matter of fact, sir, I couldn’t have been with the gardener, as Morton says, between twelve o’clock and two, because I was in my room, thinking about the sort of house I’d have one day, and thinking, too, about Christmas. Christmas always meant a lot to us at home, and we never had a Christmas without a tree and a party and a bran pie, and a dance at the Town Hall. And, of course, down at the Manor, you couldn’t call it gay exactly. It’s one of the between houses.”
Miles, intrigued, asked what that meant. Field explained seriously that poor people, the sort who did not mind the Grays, for instance, describing them as common, were gay, because they saw no objection to exhibitions of animal spirits. And rich people and high-born people were gay, also because it would not occur to them that they could be criticised, or that it would be of any consequence if they were, but that people like the Grays were solemn, because they did not desire to identify themselves with the uncontrolled lower orders, and were not sufficiently sure of themselves to be immune from criticism.
Then she went on, “I didn’t go to bed when I got into my room. I had the sort of excited feeling I always do get at Christmas. I’d had my home letters and parcels, but I hadn’t opened any of them. I thought I’d wait till it was really Christmas Day, as we always did at home. And I liked the idea that, though we couldn’t be together, we’d all be opening our presents just about the same time. So I waited up till after I heard the clock strike, and then I began opening things; I had quite a lot, because we always send one another something, if it’s ever so small, and there’s nine of us. When I’d read all the letters twice over, I went on sitting by the window and just thinking. I felt I couldn’t go to bed yet. This was going to be all my Christmas. Afterwards it would be all hurry and bustle, getting things done in time, with heaps of extra people in the house. Of course, at home we all went to church of a morning, and we’d hurry out after the service and all the Christmas hymns and holly and cottonwool and red berries on the windows and round the pulpit, and dish up the dinner. After I went into service, that was what I missed most, and it didn’t seem to get any easier as time went on. It’s five Christmases now since I’ve been home, and each year I keep wondering whether anything’ll happen so that I can go back, though there isn’t so many of us left now, only mother and my two sisters and a married brother and his wife, and their little girls that always go over. And now and again one of the others can come. Well, as I say, I sat by the window and looked out at the snow, and was glad about it, because it made it seem more like Christmas; and I didn’t think much about the people downstairs or sleeping each side of me, till of a sudden I saw a light spring up in one of the windows to the right. You know the way the house is; kind of L-shaped; and so I knew it was one of the ladies or gentlemen of the house coming to bed, and I thought, ‘They’ll see I’ve got the light on still, and it’s two o’clock nearly, and if they say anything to Miss Amy, there will be trouble.’ I knew it was one of the visitors. Mrs. Gray and Miss Amy and Mrs. Devereux, they sleep further along. Then a man came across to the window and stood at his, like I was standing at mine, and he opened it at the bottom and looked out. And I saw it was Mr. Brand. I could see quite clearly, where I was, and his face looked so different from most of the people at the Manor that I stopped for a minute where I was, just to look at him. He was so—so full of life, if you know what I mean, as if he saw his housekeeper’s room just ahead of him. He looked so glad I felt a sort of warm feeling, as though there was someone else in the house that knew the way I felt, though he didn’t know I was feeling it. Then the clock struck two, and he turned his head and looked straight at me. I’d pushed aside the blind to look at the snow; and then I felt a bit silly, and thought he might be wondering what I was doing there. Things, you know, that seem sensible enough when you’re
