LITMIR.BIZ

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holds above three hundred acres of land, and could stock double as many, if he had them,” said the would-be indignant rector, who was thinking a great deal more of his daughter than of the poorhouse festival. Maurice answered him with a word or two, but found it very hard to assume any interest in the question of the pudding. Isabel was more hardhearted, he thought, than even Farmer Furness, of Loversloup. And why should he trouble himself about these people,—he, who intended to sell his acres, and go away to Africa? But he smiled and made some reply, and buttered his toast, and struggled hard to seem as though nothing ailed him.

      The parson went down to church before his wife, and Mabel went with him. “Is anything wrong with Maurice Archer?” she asked her father.

      “Nothing, I hope,” said he.

      “Because he doesn’t seem to be able to talk this morning.”

      “Everybody isn’t a chatter-box like you, Mab.”

      “I don’t think I chatter more than mamma, or Bell. Do youknow, papa, I think Bell has quarrelled with Maurice Archer.”“I hope not. I should be very sorry that there should be anyquarrelling at all—particularly on this day. Well, I thinkyou’ve done it very nicely; and it is none the worse becauseyou’ve left the sounding-board alone.” Then Mabel went overto David Drum’s cottage, and asked after the condition ofMrs. Drum’s plum-pudding.

      No one had ventured to ask Maurice Archer whether he would stay in church for the sacrament, but he did. Let us hope that no undue motive of pleasing Isabel Lownd had any effect upon him at such a time. But it did please her. Let us hope also that, as she knelt beside her lover at the low railing, her young heart was not too full of her love. That she had been thinking of him throughout her father’s sermon,—thinking of him, then resolving that she would think of him no more, and then thinking of him more than ever,—must be admitted. When her mother had told her that he would come again to her, she had not attempted to assert that, were he to do so, she would again reject him. Her mother knew all her secret, and, should he not come again, her mother would know that she was heartbroken. She had told him positively that she would never love him. She had so told him, knowing well that at the very moment he was dearer to her than all the world beside. Why had she been so wicked as to lie to him? And if now she were punished for her lie by his silence, would she not be served properly ? Her mind ran much more on the subject of this great sin which she had committed on that very morning,—that sin against one who loved her so well, and who desired to do good to her,—than on those general arguments in favour of Christian kindness and forbearance which the preacher drew from the texts applicable to Christmas Day. All her father’s eloquence was nothing to her. On ordinary occasions he had no more devoted listener; but, on this morning, she could only exercise her spirit by repenting her own unchristian conduct. And then he came and knelt beside her at that sacred moment! It was impossible that he should forgive her, because he could not know that she had sinned against him.

      There were certain visits to her poorer friends in the immediate village which, according to custom, she would make after church. When Maurice and Mrs. Lownd went up to the parsonage, she and Mabel made their usual round. They all welcomed her, but they felt that she was not quite herself with them, and even Mabel asked her what ailed her.

      “Why should anything ail me?—only I don’t like walking in the snow.”

      Then Mabel took courage. “If there is a secret, Bell, pray tell me. I would tell you any secret.”

      “I don’t know what you mean,” said Isabel, almost crossly.

      “Is there a secret, Bell? I’m sure there is a secret about Maurice!’

      “Don’t,—don’t,” said Isabel.

      “I do like Maurice so much. Don’t you like him ?”

      “Pray do not talk about him, Mabel.”

      “I believe he is in love with you, Bell; and, if he is, I think you ought to be in love with him. I don’t know how you could have anybody nicer. And he is going to live at Hundlewick, which would be such great fun. Would not papa like it ?”

      “I don’t know. Oh, dear!—oh, dear!” Then she burst out into tears, and, walking out of the village, told Mabel the whole truth. Mabel heard it with consternation, and expressed her opinion that, in these circumstances, Maurice would never ask again to make her his wife.

      “Then I shall die,” said Isabel, frankly.

Chapter IV.

       Showing How Isabel Lownd Repented Her Fault

       Table of Contents

      In spite of her piteous condition and near prospect of death, Isabel Lownd completed her round of visits among her old friends. That Christmas should be kept in some way by every inhabitant of Kirkby Cliffe, was a thing of course. The district is not poor, and plenty on that day was rarely wanting. But Parson Lownd was not what we call a rich man; and there was no resident squire in the parish. The farmers, comprehending well their own privileges, and aware that the obligation of gentle living did not lie on them, were inclined to be close-fisted; and thus there was sometimes a difficulty in providing for the old and the infirm. There was a certain ancient widow in the village, of the name of Mucklewort, who was troubled with three orphan grandchildren and a lame daughter; and Isabel had, some days since, expressed a fear up at the parsonage that the good things of this world might be scarce in the old widow’s cottage. Something had, of course, been done for the old woman, but not enough, as Isabel had thought. “My dear,” her mother had said, “it is no use trying to make very poor people think that they are not poor.”

      “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 any ways 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 any one,—had taken trouble, sending all the way to Grassington for Mrs. Mucklewort’s beef!

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