Windyridge Part 7

Parties! Why, we have parties in Windyridge, and the motherkin and I went to one that evening. We put on our best bibs and tuckers--not our very best, but I wore my blue voile with the oriental tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs which even Rose used to admit set off my figure to advantage, and Mother Hubbard donned the famous black satin, and added to its glories the soft Shetland shawl which I had given her that morning.

Tea was prepared in the s.p.a.cious kitchen, which had room enough and to spare for the fifteen people of all ages who were a.s.sembled there. It is a kitchen lifted bodily out of a story book, without one single alteration. The room is low, so that Farmer Goodenough touches the beams quite easily when he raises his hand, and his head only just clears the hams which are suspended from them; and it is panelled all the way round in oak. There are oak doors, oak cupboards, oak settles and tables, and an oak dresser, all with the polish of old age upon them and with much quaint carving; all of which is calculated to drive a connoisseur to covetousness and mental arithmetic. An immense fire roared up the great chimney, and its flames were reflected in the polished case of the mahogany grandfather's clock, which seemed to me rather out of place amongst so much oak, but which, with slow dignity, ticked off the time in one corner.

On the far side of the room, near the deeply recessed window, was the Christmas-tree--a huge tree for that low room, and gay with glittering gla.s.s ornaments in many grotesque shapes, brightly coloured toys, and wax candles, as yet unlighted.

The younger members of the party were gathered near it in a little group, whispering excitedly, and pointing out objects of delight with every one of which each individual had made himself familiar hours before.

Grandpa Goodenough, a hale old man of eighty, and to be distinguished from Grand_father_ Goodenough, his son, smoked a long clay pipe from his place on the settle near the hearth, and smiled on everybody. His daughter-in-law, who looked much too young to be a grandmother, bustled about in the scullery, being a.s.sisted in her activities by her eldest daughter, Ruth, and her son Ben's wife, Susie, and obstructed by her husband who, with a sincere desire to be useful, contrived to be always in the most inconvenient place at the most awkward time.

Mother Hubbard and I had been invited to step into the parlour, but preferred the more homely atmosphere of the kitchen, so we took our seats on the settle, opposite to that occupied by Grandpa.

By and by tea was ready and we were instructed to "pull our chairs up"

and "reach to." What a time we had! If tables ever do groan that one ought to have done so, for it had a heavy load which we were all expected to lighten, but n.o.body seemed to think it might be necessary to press anybody to eat.

"Now you know you're all welcome," said Farmer Goodenough heartily, when the youngest grandchild had asked what I took to be a blessing.

"We're not allus botherin' folks to have some more when there's plenty before 'em, an' all they've got to do is to reach out for 't; but if you don't all have a good tea it's your own fault, an' don't blame _me_. 'Let us eat, drink, an' be merry,' as t' Owd Book bids us."

The way the ham disappeared was a revelation to me. Farmer Goodenough stood to carve, and after a while took off his coat, apparently in order that he might be able to mop his face with his shirt sleeves and so not seriously interrupt his operations. Plates followed each other in unbroken succession, until at last the good man threw down the knife and fork and pushed back his chair.

"Well, this beats all!" he said. "Amos, lad, thee take hold. Thou's had a fair innings: give thy dad a chance."

Where the little Goodenoughs put the ham and the sponge cake, the tarts and the trifle, the red jelly and the yellow jelly and the jelly with the pine-apple in it I do not pretend to know. They expanded visibly, and when the youngest grandchild, a cherubic infant of three, leaned back and sighed, and whispered with tears in his voice, "Reggie can't eat no more, muvver," I felt relieved.

It was over at last and the table cleared in a twinkling. Ben whisked away the remnants of the ham into the larder. The women folk carried the crockery into the scullery, and whilst they were engaged in washing it up the boys disappeared into remote places with the fragments of the feast, and Mother Hubbard swept the crumbs away and folded the cloth.

"Now," said Reggie, with another little sigh, but with just a suspicion of sunshine in his eyes, "now we'se goin' to p'ay, an 'ave ze pwesents off ze Kwismastwee."

And so we did. Amos, as the eldest son at home, lit the candles, and Grandpa distributed the gifts, which were insignificant enough from the monetary point of view, but weighted in every case with the affection and goodwill of the burly farmer and his wife. There was even a box of chocolates for me, and with its aid I succeeded in winning the heart of the melancholy Reggie.

Then came the games. I wish Rose and the boarders at No. 8 could have seen the demure Miss Holden of former days walking round and round a big circle, one hand in Reggie's and the other clasped by a red-cheeked farmer, whilst a dozen voices sang, and hers as loudly as any:

"The farmer's dog was in the yard, And Bingo was his name-O!"

Then came the mad scramble of "Shy Widow" and the embarra.s.sments of the "Postman's Knock," though n.o.body had letters for me, except Reggie, who had one--very sticky and perfumed with chocolate--and Susie's little daughter, Maud, who gave me three, very shyly, but accompanied by an affectionate hug, which I returned. After this, crackers, with all their accompaniments of paper caps and ap.r.o.ns, and by the time these had been worn and exchanged and torn the youngsters were clamouring for supper. Supper! Ye G.o.ds!

When this repast was ended and the younger members of the party had been packed off to bed--for only Mother Hubbard and I were to leave the farmer's hospitable home that night--some of the grown-ups proposed a dance.

Grandpa shook his head in protest. "Nay, nay," he said in his thin, piping voice; "I don't hold wi' dancin'. Never did. You were never browt up to dance, Reuben, you weren't."

"Reyt enough, father," responded his son, "but you know things has changed sin' I were a lad. You remember what t' Owd Book says; I don't just rightly call t' words to mind, but summat about t' owd order changin'. We mun let t' young uns have a bit of a fling."

"They danced in t' Bible, grandpa," said Rebecca saucily.

"Well, they may ha' done," rejoined the old man, retiring to the settle; "but I weren't browt up i' that way, an' your father weren't neither. I were allus taught 'at it were a sort of a devil's game, were dancing."

However, dance they did, and I played for them, doing my best with the crazy old box-o'-music in the parlour; and as I glanced through the open door I saw that Grandpa was following it all with great interest, beating time the while, in uncertain fashion, with head and hand.

CHAPTER IX

MRS. BROWN EXPLAINS

There was a funeral in the village on the Wednesday of last week. On the previous Sunday Mother Hubbard had a.s.sured me with great solemnity that something of the sort was going to happen, for had not a solitary magpie perched upon our garden wall and waved his handsome tail in full view of the window for at least a minute? What connection there was between his visit and the calamity which it foretold was not clear to me, but it appears that the magpie is a bird of omen, and there is an old rhyme which in these parts is considered oracular:

"One for sorrow, And two for mirth; Three for a wedding And four for a birth."

However that may be, it is a fact that in the late afternoon Dr.

Trempest called to inform me that Farmer Brown was dead.

"He has lasted twice as long as anyone could have foreseen," he said.

"Poor chap, it's a mercy it's all over."

The whole countryside was inches deep in snow when they buried him in the little G.o.d's acre that clings to the side of the hill at the point where the roads diverge. The grave-digger had a hard task, for we had had a fortnight of severe frost; but he bent to his work with the grim persistence of the man who knows that the last enemy is a hard master, and that there must be no tarrying in his service.

All the village turned out to the funeral, and there was a great crowd of invited mourners. It struck me as strange that so many coaches should be provided and that the last sad rites should partake of the nature of a public spectacle, for surely when we have given our loved ones into G.o.d's keeping it is most seemly to lay all that is human of them in the lap of earth reverently and with simplicity; but the Yorkshire folk make it an occasion of display, fearing, perhaps, to dishonour their dead, and dreading even more the criticism and displeasure of their neighbours.

When the grave had been filled in and the upturned earth was covered with the evergreens and wreaths which loving hands had brought and left there, I went and stood beside the grave and thought of Farmer Brown's parting words. I suppose it is heretical to pray for the dead, but I did it.

Yesterday I went to see Mrs. Brown, taking the photographs and a framed enlargement with me. It was a hard tramp, and my arms ached before the journey's end was reached, but I am wonderfully "fit" just now, and I thoroughly enjoyed the walk. Well--perhaps I must modify that. There was always present with me the antic.i.p.ation of a depressing scene, and that marred the enjoyment somewhat, though it could not destroy it.

Yet to feel the sting of a north-easterly wind on one's cheek, and the sensation of crunching snow beneath one's feet, with a bright blue sky overhead and the far-away smell of spring in one's nostrils, was to experience something of the joy of life.

Here and there great drifts of snow were piled up against the banks and walls, and I knew that sheep and even men were sometimes lost in them, but I was safe enough, for the road was fairly well trodden, and when I left it and climbed the stile into the fields leading to the farm the track was quite discernible.

It is a mistake to antic.i.p.ate, and to dread what lies behind the veil is folly. Mrs. Brown taught me that in a very few moments. There was no gloom about the kitchen where she and her daughter Jane, were busily engaged in household duties, though somehow one felt that sorrow dwelt there as a guest.

I explained the purpose of my visit, and the mother's eyes grew dim with tears.

"He never breathed a word," she said; "but that was just Greenwood to nowt. He was allus tryin' to do someb'dy a good turn, but so as they shouldn't know it, and it was just like the dear lad to think o' them he was goin' to leave, an' try to pleasure 'em."

"Perhaps you would rather open the parcels yourselves when I am gone,"

I suggested, but the widow shook her head.

"Nay, I'd like to see them whilst you're here, miss, if you don't mind.

Jane, love, put the kettle on an' make a cup of tea for the young lady.

I will confess 'at I had fret just a bit 'cos we haven't any picture of father, except one 'at was took soon after we were wed, and that's over thirty year sin'; and I can't tell you how glad I shall be to 'ave 'em."

I had done my best, and I will admit that the enlargement pleased _me_, but I was ill prepared for the effect it produced upon the widow and the daughter. The girl was in her twenties, and looked matter-of-fact enough, but the moment she saw it she took the frame in her hands, pressed her lips to the gla.s.s, and cried with a dry sob, "Oh, dad, dear, I cannot bear it!" and then knelt down on the broad fender and prepared some toast.

But her mother placed the picture against the big Bible on the high drawers and gazed steadily at it for a moment or two, after which she came up to me where I was standing, and throwing her arms around my neck drew my head on to her shoulder, for she is a tall woman, and kissed me again and again. But only one or two big tears fell upon my cheek, and she wiped them away hastily with her ap.r.o.n.

"I can't help it, miss," she said, "you'll not take offence, I'm sure.

But I can't do anything but love you for what you've done for me an'

Jane. You've brought more comfort to this house than I ever thought the Lord 'ud send us, an' I hope He'll pay you back a hundredfold, for I cannot."