“It is only one day in the year,” Isabel had pleaded.
“What you give in excess to one, you take from another,” replied Mrs. Lownd, with the stern wisdom which experience teaches. Poor Isabel could say nothing further, but had feared greatly that the rations in Mrs. Mucklewort’s abode would be deficient. She now entered the cottage, and found the whole family at that moment preparing themselves for the consumption of a great Christmas banquet. Mrs. Mucklewort, whose temper was not always the best in the world, was radiant. The children were silent, open-eyed, expectant, and solemn. The lame aunt was in the act of transferring a large lump of beef, which seemed to be commingled in a most inartistic way with potatoes and cabbage, out of a pot on to the family dish. At any rate there was plenty; for no five appetites—had the five all been masculine, adult, and yet youthful—could, by any feats of strength, have emptied that dish at a sitting. And Isabel knew well that there had been pudding. She herself had sent the pudding; but that, as she was well aware, had not been allowed to abide its fate till this late hour of the day. “I’m glad you’re all so well employed,” said Isabel. “I thought you had done dinner long ago. I won’t stop a minute now.”
The old woman got up from her chair, and nodded her head, and held out her withered old hand to be shaken. The children opened their mouths wider than ever, and hoped there might be no great delay. The lame aunt curtseyed and explained the circumstances. “Beef, Miss Isabel, do take a mortal time t’ boil; and it ain’t no wise good for t’ bairns to have it anyways raw.” To this opinion Isabel gave her full assent, and expressed her gratification that the amount of the beef should be sufficient to require so much cooking. Then the truth came out. “Muster Archer just sent us over from Rowdy’s a meal’s meat with a vengence; God bless him!” “God bless him!” crooned out the old woman, and the children muttered some unintelligible sound, as though aware that duty required them to express some Amen to the prayer of their elders. Now, Rowdy was the butcher living at Grassington, some six miles away—for at Kirkby Cliffe there was no butcher. Isabel smiled all round upon them sweetly, with her eyes full of tears, and then left the cottage without a word.
He had done this because she had expressed a wish that these people should be kindly treated—had done it without a syllable spoken to her or to anyone—had taken trouble, sending all the way to Grassington for Mrs. Mucklewort’s beef! No doubt he had given other people beef, and had whispered no word of his kindness to anyone at the rectory. And yet she had taken upon herself to rebuke him, because he had not cared for Christmas Day! As she walked along, silent, holding Mabel’s hand, it seemed to her that of all men he was the most perfect. She had rebuked him, and had then told him—with incredible falseness—that she did not like him; and after that, when he had proposed to her in the kindest, noblest manner, she had rejected him—almost as though he had not been good enough for her! She felt now as though she would like to bite the tongue out of her head for such misbehaviour.
“Was not that nice of him?” said Mabel. But Isabel could not answer the question. “I always thought he was like that,” continued the younger sister. “If he were my lover, I’d do anything he asked me, because he is so good-natured.”
“Don’t talk to me,” said Isabel. And Mabel, who comprehended something of the condition of her sister’s mind, did not say another word on their way back to the parsonage.
It was the rule of the house that on Christmas Day they should dine at four o’clock;—a rule which almost justified the very strong expression with which Maurice first offended the young lady whom he loved. To dine at one or two o’clock is a practice which has its recommendations. It suits the appetite, is healthy, and divides the day into two equal halves, so that no man so dining fancies that his dinner should bring to him an end of his usual occupations. And to dine at six, seven, or eight is well adapted to serve several purposes of life. It is convenient, as inducing that gentle lethargy which will sometimes follow the pleasant act of eating at a time when the work of the day is done; and it is both fashionable and comfortable. But to dine at four is almost worse than not to dine at all. The rule, however, existed at Kirkby Cliffe parsonage in regard to this one special day in the year, and was always obeyed.
On this occasion Isabel did not see her lover from the moment in which he left her at the church door till they met at table. She had been with her mother, but her mother had said not a word to her about Maurice. Isabel knew very well that they two had walked home together from the church, and she had thought that her best chance lay in the possibility that he would have spoken of what had
