More Pages from a Journal. William Hale White

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СКАЧАТЬ I am worthy of hope, truly thankful.’

      Mrs. Poulter dropped Palmer’s Ecclesiastical History, which she had begun to read every Sunday afternoon for three months. Mr. Goacher picked it up, and was about to take Mrs. Poulter’s hand, but Miss Taggart entered and the conversation closed just when it was becoming interesting.

      In a day or two Mrs. Poulter informed Miss Toller that the ladies and Mr. Goacher had been pleased to express a wish that she should dine with them on Christmas Day. She consented with becoming humility, as even Mrs. Poulter confessed, but with many secret misgivings. She desired to strengthen herself with her lodgers on whom her living depended, but Helen was more than a servant. She was her friend, and she could not bear the thought of leaving her in the kitchen. Helen, too, was passionate and jealous. Miss Toller therefore ventured to ask Mrs. Poulter whether, as it was Christmas, Helen also might be invited. Mrs. Poulter signified to Miss Toller her extreme surprise at the suggestion.

      ‘The line, Miss Toller, must be drawn somewhere. Helen will have the gratuity usual at this season—she is a well-regulated person and will see the impropriety of intrusion into a sphere for which she is unfit.’

      Miss Toller withdrew. She dared not venture to explain or apologise to Helen, although delay would make matters worse. She went into North Street and spent ten shillings which she could ill afford in buying a locket for her.

      Christmas Eve was black and bitter. After the lodgers had gone to bed, Miss Toller and Helen sat by the kitchen fire.

      ‘Oh, Miss, I wish we were at Barton Sluice.’

      ‘What makes you wish it, now?’

      ‘I hate this place and everybody in it, excepting you. I suppose it’s Christmas makes me think of the old farm.’

      ‘I remember you said once that you thought you would like a town.’

      ‘Ah, I said so then. I should love to see them meadows again. The snow when it melts there doesn’t go to dirty, filthy slush as it does in Brighton. But it’s the people here I can’t bear. I could fly at that Poulter and that Goacher at times, no matter if I was had up for it.’

      ‘You forget what a hard life you had with Mrs. Wootton at the Hatch.’

      ‘No, I don’t forget. She had a rough tongue, but she was one of our set. She got as good as she gave. She spoke her mind, and I spoke mine, and there was an end to it. But this lot—they are so stuck-up and stuck-round. I never saw such folk in our parts—they make me feel as if I were the dirt under their feet.’

      ‘Never mind them. I have more to put up with than you have. You know all; you may be sure, if I could help it, I shouldn’t be here.’

      ‘I do know all. I shouldn’t grieve if that stepmother of yours drank herself to death. O Lord, when I see what you have to go through I am ashamed of myself. But you were made one way and I another. You dear, patient creature!’

      ‘It’s half-past eleven. It is time to go to bed.’

      They went to their cold lean-to garrets under the slates.

      Miss Toller lay awake for hours. This, then, was Christmas Eve, one more Christmas Eve. She recollected another Christmas Eve twenty years gone. She went out to a party, she and her father and mother and sister; mother and sister now dead. Somebody walked home with her that clear, frosty night. Strange! Miss Toller, Brighton lodging-house keeper, always in black gown—no speck of colour even on Sundays—whose life was spent before sinks and stoves, through whose barred kitchen windows the sun never shone, had wandered in the land of romance; in her heart also Juliet’s flame had burned. A succession of vivid pictures of her girlhood passed before her: of the garden, of the farmyard and the cattle in it, of the river, of the pollard willows sloping over it, of Barton Sluice covered with snow—how still it was at that moment—the dog has been brought inside because of the cold, and is asleep in the living-room—her father, is he awake? the tall clock is ticking by the window, she could hear its slow beats, and as she listened she fell asleep, but was presently awakened by the bells proclaiming the birth in a manger. She remembered that Mrs. Poulter had to be called at seven that she might go to an early service. She hastily put on her clothes and knocked at the door, but Mrs. Poulter decided that, as it was freezing, it would not be safe to venture, and having ordered a cup of tea in her bedroom at half-past eight, turned round and fell asleep again.

      It was a busy day. The lodgers, excepting Miss Everard, went to church in the morning, but Miss Toller and Helen had their hands full. In the afternoon Miss Toller was obliged to tell Helen the unpleasant news.

      ‘I don’t want to go, but I must not offend them.’

      ‘But you are going?’

      ‘I can’t get out of it.’

      Helen did not speak another word. About half-past six Miss Toller put on her best clothes and appeared in the dining-room. Helen punctually served the dinner. A seat was allotted to Miss Toller at the bottom of the table opposite Miss Everard and next to Mr. Goacher, who faced Mrs. Poulter. Mrs. Mudge’s wine was produced, and Mr. Goacher graciously poured out a glass for Miss Toller.

      ‘At this festive season, ma’am.’

      A second glass was not offered, although Mrs. Mudge’s supply was liberal. Mr. Goacher did not stint himself.

      ‘There are beautiful churches in Northamptonshire, I believe, Miss Toller?’ said the reverend gentleman after the third glass.

      ‘Yes, very beautiful.’

      ‘Ah! that is delightful. To whatever school in the Establishment we belong, we cannot be insensible to the harmony between it and our dear old ivy-clad towers and the ancient gravestones. I love old country churches. I often wish my lot had been cast in a simple rural parish.’

      Miss E. ‘Why do you not go?’

      Mr. G. ‘My unfortunate throat; and besides, I believe I am really better fitted for an urban population.’

      Miss E. ‘In what way?’

      Mr. G. ‘Well, you see, Miss Everard, questions present themselves to our hearers in towns which do not naturally occur to the rustic mind—questions with which, if I may say so, I am perhaps fitted to deal. The rustic mind needs nothing more than a simple presentation of the Gospel.’

      Miss E. ‘What kind of questions?’

      Mr. G. ‘You must be aware that our friend Mrs. Poulter, for instance, accustomed as she is to the mental stimulus of Southsea and Brighton, takes an interest in topics unfamiliar to an honest agriculturist who is immersed all the week in beeves and ploughs and swine.’

      Mr. Goacher had intended that Mrs. Poulter should hear that her name was mentioned.

      Mrs. P. ‘What are you saying about me?’

      Miss E. ‘Nothing to your discredit. We were talking about town and country parishes, and Mr. Goacher maintains that in a town parish a clergyman of superior intellect is indispensable.’

      Mrs. P. ‘But what has that to do with me?’

      Miss E. ‘Oh, we СКАЧАТЬ