Grace alighted, and was about to enter the house, when Jael stopped her, and said, “Oh, miss, you will be going in left foot foremost. Pray don't do that: it is so unlucky.”
Grace laughed, but changed her foot, and entered a lofty hall, hung with helmets, pikes, breast-plates, bows, cross-bows, antlers etc., etc. Opposite her was the ancient chimneypiece and ingle-nook, with no grate but two huge iron dogs, set five feet apart; and on them lay a birch log and root, the size of a man, with a dozen beech3 billets burning briskly and crackling underneath4 and aside it. This genial5 furnace warmed the staircase and passages, and cast a fiery6 glow out on the carriage, and glorified7 the steep helmets and breast-plates of the dead Rabys on the wall, and the sparkling eyes of the two beautiful women who now stood opposite it in the pride of their youth, and were warmed to the heart by its crackle and glow. “Oh! what a glorious fire, this bitter night. Why, I never saw such a—”
“It is the yule log, miss. Ay, and you might go all round England, and not find its fellow, I trow. But our Squire8 he don't go to the chandler's shop for his yule log, but to his own woods, and fells a great tree.”
A housemaid now came forward with bed candles, to show Miss Carden to her room. Grace was going up, as a matter of course, when Jael, busy helping9 the footman with her boxes, called after her: “The stocking, miss! the stocking!”
Grace looked down at her feet in surprise.
“There it is, hung up by the door. We must put our presents into it before we go upstairs.”
“Must we? what on earth am I to give?”
“Oh, any thing will do. See, I shall put in this crooked10 sixpence.”
Grace examined her purse, and complained that all her stupid sixpences were straight.
“Never mind, miss; put in a hairpin11, sooner than pass the stocking o' Christmas Eve.”
Grace had come prepared to encounter old customs. She offered her shawl-pin: and Jael, who had modestly inserted her own gift, pinned Grace's offering on the outside of the stocking with a flush of pride. Then they went upstairs with the servant, and Grace was ushered12 into a bedroom of vast size, with two huge fires burning at each end; each fireplace was flanked with a coal-scuttle full of kennel13 coal in large lumps, and also with an enormous basket of beech billets. She admired the old-fashioned furniture, and said, “Oh, what a palace of a bedroom! This will spoil me for my little poky room. Here one can roam about and have great thoughts. Hillsborough, good-by! I end my days in the country.”
Presently her quick ears caught the rattle14 of swift wheels upon the hard road: she ran to the window, and peeped behind the curtain. Two brilliant lamps were in sight, and drew nearer and nearer, like great goggling15 eyes, and soon a neat dog-cart came up to the door. Before it had well-stopped, the hospitable16 door flew open, and the yule fire shone on Mr. Coventry, and his natty17 groom18, and his dog cart with plated axles; it illumined the silver harness, and the roan horse himself, and the breath that poured into the keen air from his nostrils19 red inside.
Mr. Coventry dropped from his shoulders, with easy grace, something between a coat and a cloak, lined throughout with foxes' skin; and, alighting, left his groom to do the rest. The fur was reddish, relieved with occasional white; and Grace gloated over it, as it lay glowing in the fire-light. “Ah,” said she, “I should never do for a poor man's wife: I'm so fond of soft furs and things, and I don't like poky rooms.” With that she fell into a reverie, which was only interrupted by the arrival of Jael and her boxes.
Jael helped her unpack20, and dress. There was no lack of conversation between these two, but most of it turned upon nothings. One topic, that might have been interesting to the readers of this tale, was avoided by them both. They had now come to have a high opinion of each other's penetration21, and it made them rather timid and reserved on that subject.
Grace was dressed, and just going down, when she found she wanted a pin. She asked Jael for one.
Jael looked aghast. “Oh, miss, I'd rather you would take one, in spite of me.”
“Well, so I will. There!” And she whipped one away from the bosom22 of Jael's dress.
“Mind, I never gave it you.”
“No. I took it by brute23 force.”
“I like you too well to give you a pin.”
“May I venture to inquire what would be the consequence?”
“Ill luck, you may be sure. Heart-trouble, they do say.”
“Well, I'm glad to escape that so easily. Why, this is the temple of superstition24, and you are the high-Priestess. How shall I ever get on at dinner, without you? I know I shall do something to shock Mr. Raby. Perhaps spill the very salt. I generally do.”
“Ay, miss, at home. But, dear heart, you won't see any of them nasty little salt-cellars here, that some crazy creature have invented to bring down bad luck. You won't spill the salt here, no fear: but don't ye let any body help you to it neither, if he helps you to salt, he helps you to sorrow.”
“Oh, does he? Then it is fortunate nobody ever does help anybody to salt. Well, yours is a nice creed25. Why, we are all at the mercy of other people, according to you. Say I have a rival: she smiles in my face, and says, 'My sweet friend, accept this tribute of my esteem26;' and gives me a pinch of salt, before I know where I am. I wither27 on the spot; and she sails off with the prize. Or, if there is no salt about, she comes behind me with a pin, and pins it to my skirt, and that pierces my heart. Don't you see what abominable28 nonsense it all is?”
The argument was cut short by the ringing of a tremendous bell.
Grace gave the last, swift, searching, all-comprehensive look of her sex into the glass, and went down to the drawing-room. There she found Mr. Raby and Mr. Coventry, who both greeted her cordially; and the next moment dinner was announced.
“Raby Hall” was a square house, with two large low wings. The left wing contained the kitchen, pantry, scullery, bakehouse, brew-house, etc.; and servants' bedrooms above. The right wing the stables, coach-houses, cattle-sheds, and several bedrooms. The main building of the hall, the best bedrooms, and the double staircase, leading up to them in horse-shoe form from the hall: and, behind the hall, on the ground-floor, there was a morning-room, in which several of the Squire's small tenants29 were even now preparing for supper by drinking tea, and eating cakes made in rude imitation of the infant Saviour30. On the right of the hall were the two drawing-rooms en suite31, and on the left was the remarkable32 room into which the host now handed Miss Carden, and Mr. Coventry followed. This room had been, originally, the banqueting-hall. It was about twenty feet high, twenty-eight feet wide, and fifty feet long, and ended in an enormous bay window, that opened upon the lawn. It was entirely33 paneled with oak, carved by old Flemish workmen, and adorned34 here and there with bold devices. The oak, having grown old in a pure atmosphere, and in a district where wood and roots were generally burned in dining-rooms, had acquired a very rich and beautiful color, a pure and healthy reddish brown, with no tinge35 whatever of black; a mighty36 different hue37 from any you can find in Wardour Street. Plaster ceiling there was none, and never had been. The original joists, and beams, and boards, were still there, only not quite so rudely fashioned as of old; for Mr. Raby's grandfather had caused them to be planed and varnished38, and gilded39 a little in serpentine40 lines. This woodwork above gave nobility to the room, and its gilding41, though worn, relieved the eye agreeably.
The further end was used as a study, and one side of it graced with books, all handsomely bound: the other side, with a very beautiful organ that had an oval mirror in the midst of its gilt42 dummy-pipes. All this made a cozy43 nook in the grand room.
What might be called the dining-room part, though rich, was rather somber44 on ordinary occasions; but this night it was decorated gloriously. The materials were simple—wax-candles and holly45; the effect was produced by a magnificent use of these materials. There were eighty candles, of the largest size sold in shops, and twelve wax pillars, five feet high, and the size of a man's calf46; of these, four only were lighted at present. The holly was not in sprigs, but in enormous branches, that filled the eye with glistening47 green and red: and, in the embrasure of the front window stood a young holly-tree entire, eighteen feet high, and gorgeous with five hundred branches of red berries. The tree had been dug up, and planted here in an enormous bucket, used for that purpose, and filled with mold.
Close behind this tree were placed two of the wax pillars, lighted, and their flame shone through the leaves and berries magically.
As Miss Carden entered, on Mr. Raby's arm, her eye swept the room with complacency, and settled on the holly-tree. At sight of that she pinched Mr. Raby's arm, and cried “Oh!” three times. Then, ignoring the dinner-table altogether, she pulled her host away to the tree, and stood before it, with clasped hands. “Oh, how beautiful!”
Mr. Raby was gratified. “So then our forefathers48 were not quite such fools as some people say.”
“They were angels, they were ducks. It is beautiful, it is divine.”
Mr. Raby looked at the glowing cheek, and deep, sparkling, sapphire49 eye. “Come,” said he; “after all, there's nothing here so beautiful as the young lady who now honors the place with her presence.”
With this he handed her ceremoniously to a place at his right hand; said a short grace, and sat down between his two guests.
“But, Mr. Raby,” said Grace, ruefully, “I'm with my back to the holly-tree.”
“You can ask Coventry to change places.”
Mr. Coventry rose, and the change was effected.
“Well, it is your doing, Coventry. Now she'll overlook YOU.”
“All the better for me, perhaps. I'm content: Miss Carden will look at the holly, and I shall look at Miss Carden.”
“Faute de mieux.”
“C'est mechant.”
“And I shall fine you both a bumper50 of champagne51, for going out of the English language.”
“I shall take my punishment like a man.”
“Then take mine as well. Champagne with me means frenzy52.”
But, in the midst of the easy banter53 and jocose54 airy nothings of the modern dining-room, an object attracted Grace's eye. It was a picture, with its face turned to the wall, and some large letters on the back of the canvas.
This excited Grace's curiosity directly, and, whenever she could, without being observed, she peeped, and tried to read the inscription55; but, what with Mr. Raby's head, and a monster candle that stood before it, she could not decipher it unobserved. She was inclined to ask Mr. Raby; but she was very quick, and, observing that the other portraits were of his family, she suspected at once that the original of this picture had offended her host, and that it would be in bad taste, and might be offensive, to question him. Still the subject took possession of her.
At about eight o'clock a servant announced candles in the drawing-room.
Upon this Mr. Raby rose, and, without giving her any option on the matter, handed her to the door with obsolete56 deference57.
In the drawing-room she found a harpsichord59, a spinet60, and a piano, all tuned61 expressly for her. This amused her, as she had never seen either of the two older instruments in her life. She played on them all three.
Mr. Raby had the doors thrown open to hear her.
She played some pretty little things from Mendelssohn, Spohr, and Schubert.
The gentlemen smoked and praised.
Then she found an old music-book, and played Hamlet's overture62 to Otho, and the minuet.
The gentlemen left off praising directly, and came silently into the room to hear the immortal63 melodist. But this is the rule in music; the lips praise the delicate gelatinous, the heart beats in silence at the mighty melodious64.
Tea and coffee came directly afterward65, and ere they were disposed of, a servant announced “The Wassailers.”
“Well, let them come in,” said Mr. Raby.
The school-children and young people of the village trooped in, and made their obeisances66, and sang the Christmas Carol—
“God rest you, merry gentlemen,
Let nothing you dismay.”
Then one of the party produced an image of the Virgin67 and Child, and another offered comfits in a box; a third presented the wassail-cup, into which Raby immediately poured some silver, and Coventry followed his example. Grace fumbled68 for her purse, and, when she had found it, began to fumble69 in it for her silver.
But Raby lost all patience, and said, “There, I give this for the lady, and she'll pay me NEXT CHRISTMAS.”
The wassailers departed, and the Squire went to say a kind word to his humbler guests.
Miss Carden took that opportunity to ask Mr. Coventry if he had noticed the picture with its face to the wall. He said he had.
“Do you know who it is?”
“No idea.”
“Did you read the inscription?”
“No. But, if you are curious, I'll go back to the dining-room, and read it.”
“I'm afraid he might be angry. There is no excuse for going there now.”
“Send me for your pocket-handkerchief.”
“Please see whether I have left my pocket-handkerchief in the dining-room, Mr. Coventry,” said Grace, demurely70.
Mr. Coventry smiled, and hurried away. But he soon came back to say that the candles were all out, the windows open, and the servants laying the cloth for supper.
“Oh, never mind, then,” said Grace; “when we go in to supper I'll look myself.”
But a considerable time elapsed before supper, and Mr. Coventry spent this time in making love rather ardently71, and Grace in defending herself rather feebly.
It was nearly eleven o'clock when Mr. Raby rejoined them, and they all went in to supper. There were candles lighted on the table and a few here and there upon the walls; but the room was very somber: and Mr. Raby informed them this was to remind them of the moral darkness, in which the world lay before that great event they were about to celebrate.
He then helped each of them to a ladleful of frumety, remarking at the same time, with a grim smile, that they were not obliged to eat it; there would be a very different supper after midnight. Then a black-letter Bible was brought him, and he read it all to himself at a side-table.
After an interval73 of silence so passed there was a gentle tap at the bay window. Mr. Raby went and threw it open, and immediately a woman's voice, full, clear, and ringing, sang outside:
“The first Noel the angels did say,
Was to three poor shepherds, in fields as they lay,
In fields where they were keeping their sheep,
On a cold winter's night that was so deep.
Chorus.—Noel, Noel, Noel, Noel,
Born is the King of Israel.”
The chorus also was sung outside.
During the chorus one of the doors opened, and Jael Dence came in by it; and the treble singer, who was the blacksmith's sister, came in at the window, and so the two women met in the room, and sang the second verse in sweetest harmony. These two did not sing like invalids74, as their more refined sisters too often do; from their broad chests, and healthy lungs, and noble throats, and above all, their musical hearts, they poured out the harmony so clear and full, that every glass in the room rang like a harp58, and a bolt of ice seemed to shoot down Grace Carden's backbone75; and, in the chorus, gentle George's bass76 was like a diapason.
“They looked up and saw a star
That shone in the East beyond them far,
And unto the earth it gave a great light,
And so it continued both day and night.
Chorus—Noel, Noel, Noel, Noel,
Born is the King of Israel.”
As the Noel proceeded, some came in at the window, others at the doors, and the lower part of the room began to fill with singers and auditors77.
The Noel ended: there was a silence, during which the organ was opened, the bellows78 blown, and a number of servants and others came into the room with little lighted tapers79, and stood, in a long row, awaiting a signal from the Squire.
He took out his watch, and, finding it was close on twelve o'clock, directed the doors to be flung open, that he might hear the great clock in the hall strike the quarters.
There was a solemn hush80 of expectation, that made the sensitive heart of Grace Carden thrill with anticipation81.
The clock struck the first quarter—dead silence; the second—the third—dead silence.
But, at the fourth, and with the first stroke of midnight, out burst the full organ and fifty voices, with the “Gloria in excelsis Deo;” and, as that divine hymn82 surged on, the lighters83 ran along the walls and lighted the eighty candles, and, for the first time, the twelve waxen pillars, so that, as the hymn concluded, the room was in a blaze, and it was Christmas Day.
Instantly an enormous punch-bowl was brought to the host. He put his lips to it, and said, “Friends, neighbors, I wish you all a merry Christmas.” Then there was a cheer that made the whole house echo; and, by this time, the tears were running down Grace Carden's cheeks.
She turned aside, to hide her pious84 emotion, and found herself right opposite the picture, with this inscription, large and plain, in the blaze of light—
“GONE INTO TRADE”
If, in the middle of the pious harmony that had stirred her soul, some blaring trumpet85 had played a polka, in another key, it could hardly have jarred more upon her devotional frame, than did this earthly line, that glared out between two gigantic yule candles, just lighted in honor of Him, whose mother was in trade when he was born.
She turned from it with deep repugnance86, and seated herself in silence at the table.
Very early in the supper she made an excuse, and retired87 to her room: and, as she went out, her last glance was at the mysterious picture.
She saw it again next morning at breakfast-time; but, it must be owned, with different eyes. It was no longer contrasted with a religious ceremony, and with the sentiments of gratitude88 and humility89 proper to that great occasion, when we commemorate90 His birth, whose mother had gone into trade. The world, and society, whose child she was, seemed now to speak with authority from the canvas, and to warn her how vain and hopeless were certain regrets, which lay secretly, I might say clandestinely91, at her heart.
She revered92 her godfather, and it was no small nor irrelevant93 discovery to find that he had actually turned a picture in disgrace to the wall, because its owner had descended95 to the level, or probably not quite to the level, of Henry Little.
Jael Dence came up from the farm on Christmas afternoon, and almost the first word Grace spoke96 was to ask her if she knew whose picture that was in the dining-room. This vague description was enough for Jael. She said she could not tell for certain, but she had once heard her father say it was the Squire's own sister; but, when she had pressed him on the subject, the old man had rebuked97 her—told her not to meddle98 too much with other folks' business. “And, to be sure, Squire has his reasons, no doubt,” said Jael, rather dryly.
“The reason that is written on the back?”
“Ay: and a very poor reason too, to my mind.”
“You are not the best judge of that—excuse me for saying so. Oh dear, I wish I could see it.”
“Don't think of such a thing, miss. You can't, however, for it's padlocked down that way you could never loose it without being found out. No longer agone than last Yule-time 'twas only turned, and not fastened. But they say in the kitchen, that one day last month Squire had them all up, and said the picture had been tampered99 with while he was at Hillsboro'; and he scolded, and had it strapped100 and padlocked down as 'tis.”
The reader can imagine the effect of these fresh revelations. And a lover was at hand, of good birth, good manners, and approved by her godfather. That lover saw her inclining toward him, and omitted nothing to compliment and please her. To be sure, that was no uphill work, for he loved her better than he had ever loved a woman in his life, which was a good deal to say, in his case.
They spent Christmas Day very happily together. Church in the morning; then luncheon101; then thick boots, a warmer shawl, and a little walk all together; for Mr. Raby took a middle course; since no positive engagement existed, he would not allow his fair guest to go about with Mr. Coventry alone, and so he compromised, even in village eyes; but, on the other hand, by stopping now and then to give an order, or exchange a word, he gave Coventry many opportunities, and that gentleman availed himself of them with his usual tact102.
In the evening they sat round the great fire, and Mr. Raby mulled and spiced red wine by a family receipt, in a large silver saucepan; and they sipped104 the hot and generous beverage105, and told stories and legends, the custom of the house on Christmas night. Mr. Raby was an inexhaustible repertory of ghost-stories and popular legends. But I select one that was told by Mr. Coventry, and told with a certain easy grace that gave it no little interest.
MR. COVENTRY'S TALE.
“When I was quite a child, there was a very old woman living in our village, that used to frighten me with her goggle106 eyes, and muttering. She passed for a witch, I think; and when she died—I was eight years old then—old people put their heads together, and told strange stories about her early life. It seems that this Molly Slater was away in service at Bollington, a village half way between our place and Hillsborough, and her fellow-servants used to quiz her because she had no sweetheart. At last, she told them to wait till next Hilisboro' fair, and they should see. And just before the fair, she reminded them of their sneers107, and said she would not come home without a sweetheart, though she took the Evil one himself. For all that, she did leave the fair alone. But, as she trudged108 home in the dark, a man overtook her, and made acquaintance with her. He was a pleasant fellow, and told her his name was William Easton. Of course she could not see his face very well, but he had a wonderfully sweet voice. After that night, he used to court her, and sing to her, but always in the dark. He never would face a candle, though he was challenged to more than once. One night there was a terrible noise heard—it is described as if a number of men were threshing out corn upon the roof—and Molly Slater was found wedged in between the bed and the wall, in a place where there was scarcely room to put your hand. Several strong men tried to extricate109 her by force; but both the bed and the woman's body resisted so strangely that, at last, they thought it best to send for the parson. He was a great scholar, and himself under some suspicion of knowing more than it would be good for any less pious person to know. Well, the parson came, and took a candle that was burning, and held it to the place where poor Molly was imprisoned110, and moaning; and they say he turned pale, and shivered, for all his learning. I forget what he said or did next; but by-and-by there was a colloquy111 in a whisper between him and some person unseen, and they say that this unseen whisper was very sweet, and something like the chords of a harp, only low and very articulate. The parson whispered, 'God gives a sinner time.' The sweet voice answered, 'He can afford to; he is the stronger.' Then the parson adjured113 the unseen one to wait a year and a day. But he refused, still in the gentlest voice. Then the parson said these words: 'By all we love and fear, by all you fear and hate, I adjure112 you to loose her, or wait till next Christmas Eve.'
“I suppose the Evil Spirit saw some trap in that proposal, for he is said to have laughed most musically. He answered, 'By all I fear and hate, I'll loose her never; but, but I'll wait for her—till the candle's burnt out;' and he chuckled114 most musically again.
“'Then wait to all eternity,' the parson roared; and blew the candle out directly, and held it, with his hands crossed over it.”
Grace Carden's eyes sparkled in the firelight. “Go on,” she cried, excitedly.
“The girl was loosed easily enough after that; but she was found to be in a swoon; and not the least bruised115, though ten villagers had been pulling at her one after another.”
“And what became of her afterward?”
“She lived to be ninety-six, and died in my time. I think she had money left her. But she never married; and when she was old she wandered about the lanes, muttering, and frightening little boys, myself among the number. But now my little story follows another actor of the tale.”
“Oh, I'm so glad it is not over.”
“No. The parson took the candle away, and it was never seen again. But, somehow, it got wind that he had built it into the wall of the church; perhaps he didn't say so, but was only understood to say so. However, people used to look round the church for the place. And now comes the most remarkable thing of all; three years ago the present rector repaired the floor of the chancel, intending to put down encaustic tiles. Much to his surprise, the workmen found plenty of old encaustic tiles; they had been interred116 as rubbish at some period, when antiquity117 and beauty were less respected than they are now, I suppose.”
Mr. Raby broke in, “The Puritans. Barbarians118! beasts! It was just like them. Well, sir—?”
“When the rector found that, he excavated119 more than was absolutely necessary for his purpose, and the deeper he went the more encaustic tiles. In one place they got down to the foundation, and they found an oak chest fast in the rock—a sort of channel had been cut in the rock for this chest, or rather box (for it was only about eighteen inches long), to lie in. The master mason was there luckily, and would not move it till the rector had seen it. He was sent for, but half the parish was there before him; and he tells me there were three theories firmly established and proved, before he could finish his breakfast and get to the spot. Theory of Wilder, the village grocer: 'It is treasure hidden by them there sly old monks120.' Mr. Wilder is a miser121, and is known to lay up money. He is, I believe, the only man left in the North Country who can show you a hundred spade guineas.”
Mr. Raby replied, energetically, “I respect him. Wilder forever! What was the next theory?”
“The skeleton of a child. I forget who propounded122 this; but I believe it carried the majority. But the old sexton gave it a blow. 'Nay123, nay,' said he; 'them's the notions of strangers. I was born here, and my father afore me. It will be Molly Slater's candle, and naught124 else.' Then poor Molly's whole story came up again over the suspected box. But I am very tedious.”
“Tedious! You are delightful125, and thrilling, and pray go on. The rector had the box opened?”
“On the spot.”
“Well!”
“The box went to pieces, in spite of all their care. But there was no doubt as to its contents.”
Grace exclaimed, enthusiastically, “A candle. Oh, do say a candle!”
Mr. Coventry responded, “It's awfully126 tempting127; but I suspect the traditional part of my story is SLIGHTLY EMBELLISHED128, so the historical part must be accurate. What the box did really contain, to my knowledge, was a rush-wick, much thicker than they are made nowadays: and this rush-wick was impregnated with grease, and even lightly coated with a sort of brown wafer-like paste. The rector thinks it was a combination of fine dust from the box with the original grease. He shall show it you, if you are curious to see it.”
“Of course we are curious. Oh, Mr. Raby, what a strange story. And how well he told it.”
“Admirably. We must drink his health.”
“I'll wish it him instead, because I require all my reason just now to understand his story. And I don't understand it, after all. There: you found the candle, and so it is all true. But what does the rector think?”
“Well, he says there is no connection whatever between the rush-wick and—”
“Don't tell her what HE says,” cried Raby, with a sudden fury that made Grace start and open her eyes. “I know the puppy. He is what is called a divine nowadays; but used to be called a skeptic129. There never was so infidel an age. Socinus was content to prove Jesus Christ a man; but Renan has gone and proved him a Frenchman. Nothing is so gullible130 as an unbeliever. The right reverend father in God, Cocker, has gnawed131 away the Old Testament132: the Oxford
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