“And someone else, if you remember, did not like Dr. Fell.”
“And now, good people, what are you all going to do about church?” said Staveley, while they were still engaged with their rolls and eggs.
“I shall walk,” said the judge.
“And I shall go in the carriage,” said the judge’s wife.
“That disposes of two; and now it will take half an hour to settle for the rest. Miss. Furnival, you no doubt will accompany my mother. As I shall be among the walkers you will see how much I sacrifice by the suggestion.”
It was a mile to the church, and Miss Furnival knew the advantage of appearing in her seat unfatigued and without subjection to wind, mud, or rain. “I must confess,” she said, “that under all the circumstances, I shall prefer your mother’s company to yours;” whereupon Staveley, in the completion of his arrangements, assigned the other places in the carriage to the married ladies of the company.
“But I have taken your sister Madeline’s seat in the carriage,” protested Sophia with great dismay.
“My sister Madeline generally walks.”
“Then of course I shall walk with her;” but when the time came Miss Furnival did go in the carriage whereas Miss Staveley went on foot.
It so fell out, as they started, that Graham found himself walking at Miss Staveley’s side, to the great disgust, no doubt, of half a dozen other aspirants for that honour. “I cannot help thinking,” he said, as they stepped briskly over the crisp white frost, “that this Christmas-day of ours is a great mistake.”
“Oh, Mr. Graham!” she exclaimed.
“You need not regard me with horror—at least not with any special horror on this occasion.”
“But what you say is very horrid.”
“That, I flatter myself, seems so only because I have not yet said it. That part of our Christmas-day which is made to be in any degree sacred is by no means a mistake.”
“I am glad you think that.”
“Or rather, it is not a mistake in as far as it is in any degree made sacred. But the peculiar conviviality of the day is so ponderous! Its roast-beefiness oppresses one so thoroughly from the first moment of one’s waking, to the last ineffectual effort at a bit of fried pudding for supper!”
“But you need not eat fried pudding for supper. Indeed, here, I am afraid, you will not have any supper offered you at all.”
“No; not to me individually, under that name. I might also manage to guard my own self under any such offers. But there is always the flavour of the sweetmeat, in the air—of all the sweetmeats edible and non-edible.”
“You begrudge the children their snapdragon. That’s what it all means, Mr. Graham.”
“No; I deny it; unpremeditated snapdragon is dear to my soul; and I could expend myself in blindman’s buff.”
“You shall then, after dinner; for of course you know that we all dine early.”
“But blindman’s buff at three, with snapdragon at a quarter to four—charades at five, with wine and sweet cake at half-past six, is ponderous. And that’s our mistake. The big turkey would be very good;—capital fun to see a turkey twice as big as it ought to be! But the big turkey, and the mountain of beef, and the pudding weighing a hundredweight, oppress one’s spirits by their combined gravity. And then they impart a memory of indigestion, a halo as it were of apoplexy, even to the church services.”
“I do not agree with you the least in the world.”
“I ask you to answer me fairly. Is not additional eating an ordinary Englishman’s ordinary idea of Christmas-day?”
“I am only an ordinary Englishwoman and therefore cannot say. It is not my idea.”
“I believe that the ceremony, as kept by us, is perpetuated by the butchers and beersellers, with a helping hand from the grocers. It is essentially a material festival; and I would not object to it even on that account if it were not so grievously overdone. How the sun is moistening the frost on the ground. As we come back the road will be quite wet.”
“We shall be going home then and it will not signify. Remember, Mr. Graham, I shall expect you to come forward in great strength for blindman’s buff.” As he gave her the required promise, he thought that even the sports of Christmas-day would be bearable, if she also were to make one of the sportsmen; and then they entered the church.
I do not know of anything more pleasant to the eye than a pretty country church, decorated for Christmas-day. The effect in a city is altogether different. I will not say that churches there should not be decorated, but comparatively it is a matter of indifference. No one knows who does it. The peculiar munificence of the squire who has sacrificed his holly bushes is not appreciated. The work of the fingers that have been employed is not recognised. The efforts made for hanging the pendent wreaths to each capital have been of no special interest to any large number of the worshippers. It has been done by contract, probably, and even if well done has none of the grace of association. But here at Noningsby church, the winter flowers had been cut by Madeline and the gardener, and the red berries had been grouped by her own hands. She and the vicar’s wife had stood together with perilous audacity on the top of the clerk’s desk while they fixed the branches beneath the cushion of the old-fashioned turret, from which the sermons were preached. And all this had of course been talked about at the house; and some of the party had gone over to see, including Sophia Furnival, who had declared that nothing could be so delightful, though she had omitted to endanger her fingers by any participation in the work. And the children had regarded the operation as a triumph of all that was wonderful in decoration; and thus many of them had been made happy.
On their
