The Rudder Grangers Abroad and Other Stories Part 14

It was three days before Christmas, and the baker of the little village of Barnbury sat in the room behind his shop. He was a short and st.u.r.dy baker, a good fellow, and ordinarily of a jolly demeanor, but this day he sat grim in his little back room.

"Christmas, indeed," he said to himself, "and what of Christmas? 'Thank you, baker, and a merry Christmas to you,' and every one of them goes away with the present of a raisin-cake, or a horse ginger-cake, if they like that better. All this for the good of the trade, of course.

Confound the trade, I'm tired of trade. Is there no good in this world, but the good of the trade? 'Oh, yes,' they'll say, 'there's Christmas, and that's good.'--'But what is the good of it to me?' say I. Christmas day is a family day, and to a man without a family it's no day at all.

I'm not even fourth cousin to a soul in the town. n.o.body asks me to a family dinner. 'Bake! baker!' they cry, 'that we may eat and love each other.' Confound them! I am tired of it. What is Christmas to me? I have a mind to skip it."

As he said this, a smile broke out on his face. "Skip Christmas," said he; "that is a good idea. They did not think of me last year; this would make them think of me this year."

As he said this he opened his order-book and ran his eye over the names. "Here's orders from every one of them," said he, "from the doctor down to Cobbler John. All have families, all give orders. It's pastry, cake, or sweetmeats, or it's meat or fowl to be baked. What a jolly Christmas they will have without me! Orders from all of them, every one; all sent in good time for fear of being crowded out."

Here he stopped and ran his eye again over the list.

"No, not all," he said; "the Widow Monk is not here. What is the matter with her, I wonder. The only person in Barnbury who has not ordered either pastry, cakes, or sweetmeats; or fowls or meat to be baked. If I skip Christmas, she'll not mind it, she'll be the only one--the only one in all Barnbury. Ha! ha!"

The baker wanted some fresh air, and, as this was supper-time for the whole village, he locked up his shop and went out for a walk. The night was clear and frosty. He liked this; the air was so different from that in his bakery.

He walked to the end of the village, and at the last house he stopped.

"It's very odd," said he to himself; "no cakes, pastry, or sweetmeats; not even poultry or meat to be baked. I'll look in and see about this,"

and he knocked at the door.

The Widow Monk was at supper. She was a plump little body, bright and cheerful to look upon, and not more than thirty.

"Good evening, baker," said she; "will you sit down and have a cup of tea?"

The baker put down his hat, unwound his long woollen comforter, took off his overcoat, and had a cup of tea.

"Now, then," said he to himself, as he put down his cup, "if she'd ask me to dinner, I wouldn't skip Christmas, and the whole village might rise up and bless her."

"We are like to have a fine Christmas," he said to her.

"Fine enough for the rest of you," she said, with a smile, "but I shall not have any Christmas this year."

"How's that?" cried the baker; "no Christmas, Widow Monk?"

"Not this year, baker," said she, and she poured him another cup of tea. "You see that horse-blanket?" said she, pointing to one thrown over a chair.

"Bless me, Widow Monk," cried the baker, "you're not intending to set up a horse?"

"Hardly that," she answered, with a smile, "but that's the very last horse-blanket that I can get to bind. They don't put them on horses, but they have them bound with red, and use them for door curtains.

That's all the fashion now, and all the Barnbury folks who can afford them, have sent them to me to be bound with red. That one is nearly finished, and there are no more to be bound."

"But haven't the Barnbury folks any more work for you?" cried the baker; "haven't they shirts or gowns, or some other sort of needling?"

"Those things they make themselves," answered the widow; "but this binding is heavy work, and they give it to me. The blankets are coa.r.s.e, you see, but they hang well in the doorway."

"Confound the people of Barnbury!" cried the baker. "Every one of them would hang well in a doorway, if I had the doing of it. And so you can't afford a Christmas, Widow Monk?"

"No," said she, setting herself to work on her horse-blanket, "not this year. When I came to Barnbury, baker, I thought I might do well, but I have not done well."

"Did not your husband leave you anything?" he asked.

"My husband was a sailor," said she, "and he went down with his brig, the _Mistletoe_, three years ago, and all that he left me is gone, baker."

It was time for the baker to open his shop, and he went away, and as he walked home snow-drops and tear-drops were all mixed together on his face.

"I couldn't do this sort of thing before her," he said, "and I am glad it was time to go and open my shop."

That night the baker did all his regular work, but not a finger did he put to any Christmas order. The next day, at supper-time, he went out for a walk.

On the way he said to himself, "If she is going to skip Christmas, and I am going to skip Christmas, why should we not skip it together? That would truly be most fit and gladsome, and it would serve Barnbury aright. I'll go in and lay it before her."

The Widow Monk was at supper, and when she asked him to take a cup of tea, he put down his hat, unwound his woollen comforter, and took off his overcoat. When he set down his empty cup he told her that he, too, had made up his mind to skip Christmas, and he told her why, and then he proposed that they should skip it together.

Now, the Widow Monk forgot to ask him to take a second cup of tea, and she turned as red as the binding she had put on the horse-blankets.

The baker pushed aside the teacups, leaned over the table, and pressed his suit very hard.

When the time came for him to open his shop she said that she would think about the matter, and that he might come again.

The next day the sun shone golden, the snow shone silvery, and Barnbury was like a paradise to the good baker. For the Widow Monk had told him he might come again, and that was almost the same thing as telling him that he and she would skip Christmas together! And not a finger, so far, had he put to any Christmas order.

About noon of that day, he was so happy, was that good baker, that he went into the village inn to have a taste of something hot. In the inn he found a tall man, with rings in his ears. A sun-browned man he was and a stranger, who had just arrived and wanted his dinner. He was also a handsome man, and a sailor, as any one could see.

As the baker entered, the tall man said to the inn-keeper:--

"Is there a Mrs. Monk now living in this village?"

"Truly there is," said the inn-keeper, "and I will show you her house.

But you'll have your dinner first?"

"Aye, aye," said the stranger, "for I'll not go to her hungry."

The baker asked for nothing hot, but turned him and went out into the cold, bleak world. As he closed the door behind him he heard the stranger say:--

"On the brig _Mistletoe_."

It was not needed that the baker should hear these words; already he knew everything. His soul had told him everything in the moment he saw the sun-browned man with the rings in his ears!

On went the baker, his head bowed on his breast, the sun shining like tawdry bra.s.s, the snow glistening like a slimy, evil thing. He knew not where he was going; he knew not what he intended to do, but on he went.

Presently a door opened, and he was called.

"I saw you coming," said the Widow Monk, "and I did not wish to keep you waiting in the cold," and she held open the door for him.

When he had entered, and had seated himself before the fire, she said to him:--

"Truly, you look chilled; you need something hot"; and she prepared it for him.

The baker took the hot beverage. This much of good he might at least allow himself. He drank it, and he felt warmed.