LITMIR.BIZ

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where the sluice rushed coldly under, on to the broad slope of the bank. We could just distinguish the gnarled old apple trees leaning about us. We bent our heads to avoid the boughs, and followed George. He hesitated a moment, saying:

      “Let me see — I think they are there — the two trees with mistletoe on.”

      We again followed silently.

      “Yes,” he said. “Here they are!”

      We went close and peered into the old trees. We could just see the dark bush of the mistletoe between the boughs of the tree. Lettie began to laugh.

      “Have we come to count the berries?” she said. “I can’t even see the mistletoe.”

      She leaned forward and upwards to pierce the darkness; he, also straining to look, felt her breath on his cheek, and turning, saw the pallor of her face close to his, and felt the dark glow of her eyes. He caught her in his arms, and held her mouth in a kiss. Then, when he released her, he turned away, saying something incoherent about going to fetch the lantern to look. She remained with her back towards me, and pretended to be feeling among the mistletoe for the berries. Soon I saw the swing of the hurricane lamp below.

      “He is bringing the lantern,” said I.

      When he came up, he said, and his voice was strange and subdued:

      “Now we can see what it’s like.”

      He went near, and held up the lamp, so that it illuminated both their faces, and the fantastic boughs of the trees, and the weird bush of mistletoe sparsely pearled with berries. Instead of looking at the berries they looked into each other’s eyes; his lids flickered, and he flushed, in the yellow light of the lamp looking warm and handsome; he looked upwards in confusion and said, “There are plenty of berries.”

      As a matter of fact, there were very few.

      She too looked up, and murmured her assent. The light seemed to hold them as in a globe, in another world, apart from the night in which I stood. He put up his hand and broke off a sprig of mistletoe, with berries, and offered it to her. They looked into each other’s eyes again. She put the mistletoe among her furs, looking down at her bosom. They remained still, in the centre of light, with the lamp uplifted; the red and black scarf wrapped loosely round his neck gave him a luxurious, generous look. He lowered the lamp and said, affecting to speak naturally:

      “Yes — there is plenty this year.”

      “You will give me some,” she replied, turning away and finally breaking the spell.

      “When shall I cut it?”— He strode beside her, swinging the lamp, as we went down the bank to go home. He came as far as the brooks without saying another word. Then he bade us good night. When he had lighted her over the stepping-stones, she did not take my arm as we walked home.

      During the next two weeks we were busy preparing for Christmas, ranging the woods for the reddest holly, and pulling the gleaming ivy-bunches from the trees. From the farms around came the cruel yelling of pigs, and in the evening later, was a scent of pork-pies. Far off on the high-way could be heard the sharp trot of ponies hastening with Christmas goods.

      There the carts of the hucksters dashed by to the expectant villagers, triumphant with great bunches of light foreign mistletoe, gay with oranges peeping through the boxes, and scarlet intrusion of apples, and wild confusion of cold, dead poultry. The hucksters 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.

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