The Squire of Sandal-Side A Pastoral Romance

CHAPTER VI.

THE DAY BE­FORE CHRIST­MAS.

“Still to our­selves in ev­ery place con­signed. Our own fe­lic­ity we make or find.”

“Catch, then, oh, catch the tran­sient hour! Im­prove each mo­ment as it flies. Life's a short sum­mer, man a flow­er; He dies, alas! how soon he dies!”

There are days which rise sad­ly, go on with­out sun­shine, and pass in­to night with­out one gleam of col­or. Life, al­so, has these pal­lid, monotonous hours. A dis­trust of all things in­vades the soul, and phys­ical in­er­tia and men­tal lan­guor make dai­ly ex­is­tence a sim­ple weight. It was Christ­mas-​time, but the squire felt none of the ela­tion of the sea­son. He was con­scious that the old fes­tal prepa­ra­tions were go­ing on, but there was no re­sponse to them in his heart. Julius had ar­rived, and was help­ing Sophia to hang the hol­ly and mistle­toe. But San­dal knew that his soul shrank from the nephew he had called in­to his life; knew that the sound of his voice ir­ri­tat­ed him, that his laugh filled him with re­sent­ment, that his very pres­ence in the house seemed to des­ecrate it, and to slay for him the very idea of home.

He was sit­ting in the “mas­ter's room,” won­der­ing how the change had come about. But he found noth­ing to an­swer the won­der, be­cause he was look­ing for some pal­pa­ble wrong, some dis­tinc­tive time or cause. He was him­self too sim­ple-​heart­ed to re­flect that it is sel­dom a great fault which de­stroys lik­ing for a per­son. A great fault can be for­giv­en. It is small per­son­al of­fences con­stant­ly re­peat­ed; lit­tle acts of mean­ness, and, above all, the pet­ty plans and pro­vi­sions of a self­ish na­ture. Be­sides which, the soul has of­ten mar­vel­lous in­tu­itions, un­mask­ing men and things; pre­mo­ni­tions, warn­ings, in­tel­li­gences, that it can­not doubt and can­not ex­plain.

In­side the house there was a pleas­ant air and stir of prepa­ra­tion; the rapid move­ments of ser­vants, the shut­ting and open­ing of doors, the low laugh­ter of gay hearts well con­tent­ed with the time and the cir­cum­stances. Out­side, the mes­mer­iz­ing snow was falling with a soft, silent per­sis­tence. The squire looked sad­ly at the white hills, and the white park, and the branch­es bend­ing un­der their load, and the som­bre sky, gray up­on dark­er gray.

Last Christ­mas the girls had re­lied en­tire­ly up­on his help. He had found the twine, and driv­en the nails, and stead­ied the lad­der when Sophia's light form mount­ed it in or­der to hang the mistle­toe. They had been so hap­py. The echo of their voic­es, their snatch­es of Christ­mas car­ols, their laugh­ter and mer­ry bad­inage, was still in his heart. He re­mem­bered the im­promp­tu lunch, which they had en­joyed so much while at work. He could see the moth­er come smil­ing in, with con­stant sam­ples of the Christ­mas cheer fresh out of the oven. He had print­ed the vers­es and mot­toes him­self, spent all the af­ter­noon over them, and been rather proud of his ef­forts. Char­lotte had said, “they were re­al­ly beau­ti­ful;” even Sophia had ad­mit­ted that “they looked well among the greens.” But to-​day he had not been asked to as­sist in the dec­ora­tions. True, he had said, in ef­fect, that he did not wish to as­sist; but, all the same, he felt shut out from his old pre-​em­inence; and he could not help re­gard­ing Julius San­dal as a usurp­er.

These were drea­ri­some Christ­mas thoughts and feel­ings; and they found their cli­max in a pa­thet­ic com­plaint, “I nev­er thought Char­lotte would have giv­en me the go-​by. All along she has tak­en my side, no mat­ter what came up. Oh, my lit­tle lass!”

As if in an­swer to the heart-​cry, Char­lotte opened the door. She was dressed in furs and tweeds, and she had the squire's big coat and woollen wraps in her hand. Be­fore he could speak, she had reached his chair, and put her arm across his shoul­der, and said in her bright, con­fi­den­tial way, “Come, fa­ther, let you and me have a bit of plea­sure by our­selves: there isn't much com­fort in the house to-​day.”

“You say right, Char­lotte; you do so, my dear. Where shall we go? Eh? Where?”

“Wher­ev­er you like best. There is no snow to ham­per us yet. Some of the ser­vants are down from Up-​Hill. Ducie has sent moth­er a great spice-​loaf and a fine Christ­mas cheese.”

“Ducie is a kind wom­an. I have known Ducie ev­er since I knew my­self. Could we climb the fell-​breast, Char­lotte? Eh? What?”

“I think we could. Ducie will miss it, if you don't go and wish her 'a mer­ry Christ­mas.' You nev­er missed grand­fa­ther La­trigg. Old friends are best, fa­ther.”

“They are that. Is Steve at home?”

“He isn't com­ing home this Christ­mas. I wasn't plan­ning about Steve, fa­ther. Don't think such a thing as that of me.”

“I don't, Char­lotte. I don't think of Char­lotte San­dal and of any thing un­der­hand at the same time. I'm a bit trou­bled and out of sorts this morn­ing, my dear.”

She kissed him af­fec­tion­ate­ly for an­swer. She not on­ly di­vined what a tri­al Julius had be­come, but she knew al­so that his heart was trou­bled in far greater depths than Julius had any pow­er to stir. Har­ry San­dal was re­al­ly at the root of ev­ery bit­ter mo­ment. For Har­ry had not tak­en the five hun­dred pounds with the cred­itable con­trite hu­mil­ia­tion of the re­pent­ing prodi­gal. It was even yet doubt­ful whether he would re­spond to his par­ents' ur­gent re­quest to spend Christ­mas at Seat-​San­dal. And when there is one rankling wrong, which we do not like to speak of, it is so nat­ural to re­lieve the heart by talk­ing a great deal about those wrongs which we are less in­clined to dis­guise and de­ny.

In the great hall a sud­den thought struck the squire; and he stood still, and looked in Char­lotte's face. “You are sure that you want to go, my dear? Won't you be missed? Eh? What?”

She clasped his hand tighter, and shook her head very pos­itive­ly. “They don't want me, fa­ther. I am in the way.”

He did not an­swer un­til they had walked some dis­tance; then he asked mean­ing­ly, “Has it come to that? Eh? What?”

“Yes, it has come to that.”

“I am very glad it isn't you. And I'm net­tled at my­self for ev­er show­ing him a road to slight you, Char­lotte.”

“If there is any slight be­tween Julius and me, fa­ther, I gave it; for he asked me to mar­ry him, and I plain­ly told him no.”

“Hear--you--but. I _am_ glad. You re­fused him? Come, come, that's a bit of plea­sure I would have giv­en a mat­ter of five pounds to have known a day or two since. It would have saved me a few good rat­ings. Eh? What?”

“Why, fa­ther! Who has been rat­ing you?”

“My­self, to be sure. You can't think what set-​downs I have giv­en William San­dal. Do you mind telling me about that re­fusal, Char­lotte? Eh? What?”

“Not a bit. It was in the har­vest-​field. He said he loved me, and I told him gen­tle­men did not talk that way to girls who had nev­er giv­en them the least en­cour­age­ment; and I said I did not love him, and nev­er, nev­er could love him. I was very firm, fa­ther, per­haps a lit­tle bit cross; for I did not like the way he spoke. I don't think he ad­mires me at all now.”

“I dare be bound he doesn't. 'Firm and a lit­tle bit cross.' It wouldn't be a nice five min­utes for Julius. He sets a deal of store by him­self;” and then, as if he thought it was his du­ty not to show too much grat­ifi­ca­tion, he added, “I hope you were very civ­il, Char­lotte. A good asker should have a good nay-​say. And you re­fused him? Well, I _am_ pleased. Moth­er nev­er heard tell of it? Eh? What?”

“Oh, no; I have told no one but you. At the long end you al­ways get at my se­crets, fa­ther.”

“We've had a good­ish few to­geth­er,--fish­ing se­crets, and such like; but I must tell moth­er this one, eh? She _will_ go on about it. In the har­vest-​field, was it? I un­der­stand now why he walked him­self off a day or two be­fore the set day. And he is all for Sophia now, is he? Well, I shouldn't won­der if Sophia will 'best' him a lit­tle on ev­ery side. You _have_ giv­en me a turn, Char­lotte. I didn't think of a son-​in-​law yet,--not just yet. Dear me! How life does go on! Ev­er since the sheep-​shear­ing it has been run­ning away with me. Life is a road on which there is no turn­ing round, Char­lotte. Oh, if there on­ly were! If you could just run back to where you made the wrong turn­ing! If you could on­ly un­do things that you have done! Eh? What?”

“Not even God can make what has been, not to have been. When a thing is done, if it is on­ly the tak­ing of a walk, the walk is tak­en to all eter­ni­ty.”

At the word “eter­ni­ty,” they stood on the brow of the hill which they had been climb­ing, and the squire said it again very solemn­ly. “Eter­ni­ty! How dread­ful to spend it in re­pen­tance which can un­do noth­ing! That is the most aw­ful con­cep­tion of the word 'eter­ni­ty.' Eh? What?”

They were silent a mo­ment, then San­dal turned and looked west­ward. “It is miz­zling al­ready, Char­lotte; the snow will turn in­to rain, and we shall have a down­pour. Had we not bet­ter go home?”

But Char­lotte paint­ed in such glow­ing col­ors Ducie's fire­side, and the pipe, and the cosey, qui­et din­ner they would be sure to get there, that the squire could not re­sist the temp­ta­tion. “For all will be at six­es and sev­ens at home,” he com­ment­ed, “and no peace for any­body, with greens and car­ols and what not. Eh? What?”

“And very like­ly, as it is Christ­mas Eve, you may be asked to give Sophia away. So a nice din­ner, and a qui­et smoke, and an hour's nap will help you through to-​night.” And the thought in each heart, be­yond this one, was “Per­haps Har­ry will be at home.”

No­body missed the fugi­tives. Mrs. San­dal was sure Har­ry would come, and she was busy prepar­ing his room with her own hands. The bright­est fire, the gayest greens, the whitest and soft­est and best of ev­ery thing, she chose for Har­ry's room.

Cer­tain­ly they were not missed by Julius and Sophia. They were far too much in­ter­est­ed in them­selves and in their own af­fairs. From the first hour of his re­turn to Seat-​San­dal, Sophia had un­der­stood that Julius was her lover, and that the time for his dec­la­ra­tion rest­ed in the main with her­self. When the Christ­mas bells were ring­ing, when the house was bright with light and ev­er­greens, and the very at­mo­sphere full of hap­pi­ness, she had de­ter­mined to give him the nec­es­sary en­cour­age­ment. But the clock of Fate can­not be put back. When the mo­ment ar­rives, the word is spo­ken or the deed done. Both of them were pre­pared for the mo­ment, and yet not just then pre­pared; for Love still holds his great sur­prise some­what in re­serve.

They were in the draw­ing-​room. The last vase had been filled, the last wreath hung; and Sophia looked at her beau­ti­ful hands, marked with the rim of the scis­sors, and stained with leaves and berries, in a lit­tle af­fect­ed dis­tress. Julius seat­ed him­self on the so­fa be­side her. She trem­bled, but he looked at her al­most tri­umphant­ly. Over Sophia's heart he knew his pow­er. With the ques­tion­ing, un­wink­ing gaze of love his eyes sought hers, and he ten­der­ly spoke her name, “_Sophia_.” She could an­swer on­ly by her con­scious si­lence.

“My wife! Mine in lives long for­got­ten.”

“O Julius!”

“Al­ways mine; missed in some ex­is­tences, re­cov­ered in oth­ers, but bring­ing in­to ev­ery life with you my mark of own­er­ship. See here.”

Then he lift­ed her hand, and open­ing its palm up­ward, he placed his own in the same at­ti­tude be­side it. “Look in­to them both, Sophia, and see how close­ly our line of for­tune is alike. That is some­thing, but be­hold.” And he showed her a sin­gu­lar mark, which had in his own palm its pre­cise coun­ter­part.

“Is it not al­so in Char­lotte's palm? In oth­ers?”

“No, in­deed. Among all the wom­en on earth, on­ly yours has this fac­sim­ile of my own. It is the soul mark up­on the body. Ev­ery ed­ucat­ed Hin­doo can trace it; and all will tell you, that, if two in­di­vid­uals have it pre­cise­ly alike, they are twin souls, and noth­ing can pre­vent their union.”

“Did they ex­plain it to you, Julius?”

“An Ori­en­tal nev­er ex­plains. They ap­pre­hend what is too sub­tle for words. They know best just what they have nev­er been told. Sophia, this hand of yours fits mine. It is the key to it; the in­ter­preter of my fate. Give me my own, dar­ling.”

To Char­lotte he would nev­er have spo­ken in such a tone. She would have re­sent­ed its claim and au­thor­ity, and per­ceived that it was like­ly to be the first en­croach­ment of a tyran­ny she did not in­tend to bow to. But Sophia was eas­ily de­ceived on this ground. She liked the mys­ti­cal air it gave to the event; the gray sanc­tion of un­known cen­turies to the love of to-​day.

They spec­ulat­ed and sup­posed, and were supreme­ly hap­py. The usu­al lover wan­ders in the dreams of the fu­ture: they sought each oth­er through the phan­tom vi­sions of the past. And they were so charmed with the oc­cu­pa­tion, that they quite for­got the ex­igen­cies and claims of the present ex­is­tence un­til the rat­tle of wheels, the stamp­ing of feet, and a joy­ful cry from Mrs. San­dal re­called them to it.

“It is Har­ry,” said Sophia. “I must go to him, Julius.”

He held her very firm­ly. “I am first. Wait a mo­ment. You must promise me once more: 'My life is your life, my love is your love, my will is your will, my in­ter­est is your in­ter­est; I am your sec­ond self.' Will you say this Sophia, as I say it?” And she an­swered him with­out a word. Love knows how such speech may be. Even when she had es­caped from her lover, she was not very sor­ry to find that Har­ry had gone at once to his own room; for he had driv­en through the ap­proach­ing storm, and been thor­ough­ly drenched. She was long­ing for a lit­tle soli­tude to be­think her of the new po­si­tion in which she found her­self; for, though she had a dreamy cu­rios­ity about her pre-​ex­is­tences, she had a very ac­tive and pos­itive in­ter­est in the suc­cess and hap­pi­ness of her present life.

Sud­den­ly she re­mem­bered Char­lotte, and with the re­mem­brance came the fact that she had not seen her since the ear­ly forenoon. But she im­me­di­ate­ly cou­pled the cir­cum­stance with the ab­sence of the squire, and then she reached the re­al so­lu­tion of the po­si­tion in a mo­ment. “They have gone to Up-​Hill, of course. Fa­ther al­ways goes the day be­fore Christ­mas; and Char­lotte, no doubt, ex­pect­ed to find Steve at home. I must tell Julius about Char­lotte and Steve. Julius will not ap­prove of a young man like Steve in our fam­ily, and it ought not to be. I am sure fa­ther and moth­er think so.”

At this point in her re­flec­tions, she heard Char­lotte en­ter her own room, but she did not go to her. Sophia had a dis­like to wet, un­tidy peo­ple, and she was not in any par­tic­ular flur­ry to tell her suc­cess. In­deed, she was rather in­clined to rev­el for an hour in the sense of it be­long­ing ab­so­lute­ly to Julius and her­self. She was not one of those im­politic wom­en, who fan­cy that they dou­ble their hap­pi­ness by im­part­ing it to oth­ers.

She de­ter­mined to dress with ex­traor­di­nary care. The oc­ca­sion war­rant­ed it, sure­ly; for it was not on­ly Christ­mas Eve, it was al­so her be­trothal eve. She put on her rich­est gar­ment, a hand­some gown of dark blue silk and vel­vet. A spray of mistle­toe-​berries was in her black hair, and a glit­ter­ing neck­lace of fine sap­phires en­hanced the beau­ty and white­ness of her exquisite neck and shoul­ders. She was de­light­ed with the ef­fect of her own brave ap­par­el, and al­so a lit­tle ex­cit­ed with the course events had tak­en, or she nev­er would have so far for­got­ten the priv­ileges of her el­der birth as to vis­it Char­lotte's room first on such an im­por­tant per­son­al oc­ca­sion.

Char­lotte was still wrapped in her dress­ing-​gown, lazi­ly mus­ing be­fore the crack­ling, blaz­ing fire. Her hands were clasped above her head, her feet com­fort­ably ex­tend­ed up­on the fend­er, her eyes closed. She had been a lit­tle tired with buf­fet­ing the storm; and the hot tea, which Mrs. San­dal had in­sist­ed up­on as a pre­ven­ta­tive of cold, had made her, as she told Sophia, “de­li­cious­ly dozy.”

“But din­ner will be ready in half an hour, and you have to dress yet, Char­lotte. How do I look?”

“You look charm­ing. How bright your eyes are, Sophia! I nev­er saw you look so well. How much Julius will ad­mire you to-​night!”

“As to that, Julius al­ways ad­mires me. He says he used to dream about me, even be­fore he saw me.”

“Oh, you know that is non­sense! He couldn't do that. I dare say he dreams about you now, though. I should think he would like to.”

“You will have to hur­ry, Char­lotte.”

“I can dress in ten min­utes if I want to.”

“I will leave you now.” She hes­itat­ed a mo­ment at the door, but she could not bring her­self to speak of her en­gage­ment. She saw that Char­lotte was in one of her “no-​mat­ter-​ev­ery-​thing-​right” moods, and knew she would take the im­por­tant news with­out the prop­er sur­prise and en­thu­si­asm. In fact, she per­ceived that Har­ry's vis­it oc­cu­pied her whole mind; for, as she stood a mo­ment or two ir­res­olute as to her own de­sires, Char­lotte talked ea­ger­ly of her broth­er.

“Well, I hope if Har­ry is of so much im­por­tance in your eyes, you will dress de­cent­ly to meet him. The rec­tor is com­ing to din­ner al­so.”

“I shall wear my blue gown. If I im­itate you, I can­not be much out of the way. Heigh-​ho! Heigh-​ho! I hope Har­ry will have a pleas­ant vis­it. We must do our best, Sophia, to make him hap­py.”

“O Char­lotte, if you have noth­ing to talk about but Har­ry, Har­ry, Har­ry, I am go­ing! I am very fond of Har­ry, but I don't pre­tend to be blind to Har­ry's faults. Re­mem­ber how many dis­agree­able hours he has giv­en us late­ly. And I must say that I think he was very un­grate­ful about the hun­dred and eighty pounds I gave him. He nev­er wrote me a line of thanks.”

“You did not give it to Har­ry, you loaned it to me. Be just Sophia. I have paid you fif­teen pounds of it back al­ready, and I shall not buy a sin­gle new dress un­til it is all re­turned. You will not lose a shilling, Sophia.”

“How Quixot­ic you can be! How­ev­er, it is no use ex­cit­ing our­selves to-​night. One likes to keep the peace at Yule-​tide, and so I will bow down to your idol as much as I can con­sci­en­tious­ly.”

Char­lotte made no an­swer. She had risen hasti­ly, and with rather un­nec­es­sary vig­or was rat­tling the ew­er and basin, and plash­ing out the wa­ter. Sophia came back in­to the room, ar­ranged the glass at the prop­er an­gle to give her a last com­pre­hen­sive re­view of her­self; and this be­ing quite sat­is­fac­to­ry, she went away with a smil­ing com­pla­cen­cy, and a sub­dued ex­cite­ment of man­ner, which in some pe­cu­liar way re­vealed to Char­lotte the re­al po­si­tion of af­fairs be­tween her sis­ter and Julius San­dal.

“She might have told me.” She dashed the wa­ter over her face at the im­plied com­plaint; and it was easy to see, from the im­pa­tient way in which she sub­se­quent­ly un­bound her hair, and pulled the comb through it, and from the ir­ri­tabil­ity of all her move­ments, that she felt the omis­sion to be a slight, not on­ly in­di­cat­ing some­thing not quite pleas­ant in the past, but pre­fig­ur­ing al­so she knew not what dis­agree­able feel­ings for the fu­ture.

“It is not Sophia's fault,” she mut­tered; “Julius is to blame for it. I think he re­al­ly hates me now. He has said to her, 'There is no need to tell Char­lotte, spe­cial­ly; it will make her of too much im­por­tance. I don't ap­prove of Char­lotte in many ways.' Oh, I know you, sir!” and with the thought she pulled the string of her neck­lace so im­pa­tient­ly that it broke; and the gold­en beads fell to her feet, and rolled hith­er and thith­er about the room.

The in­ci­dent calmed her. She fin­ished her toi­let in haste, and went down-​stairs. All the rooms were light­ed, and she saw Julius and Sophia pac­ing up and down the main par­lor, hand in hand, so in­ter­est­ed in their _sot­to voce_ con­ver­sa­tion as to be quite un­con­scious that she had stood a mo­ment at the open door for their recog­ni­tion. So she passed on with­out trou­bling them. She heard her moth­er's hap­py laugh in the large din­ing-​room, and she guessed from its tone that Har­ry was with her. Mrs. San­dal was beau­ti­ful­ly dressed in black satin, and she held in her hand a hand­some sil­ver salver. Ev­ident­ly she had been about to leave the room with it, when de­tained by some re­mark of her son's; for she was half-​way be­tween the ta­ble and the door, her pret­ty, kind­ly face all alight with love and hap­pi­ness.

Har­ry was stand­ing on the hearth-​rug, fac­ing the room,--a splen­did­ly hand­some young fel­low in a crim­son and yel­low uni­form. He was in the midst of a hearty laugh, but when he saw Char­lotte there was a sud­den and won­der­ful trans­for­ma­tion in his face. It grew in a mo­ment much fin­er, more thought­ful, wist­ful, hu­man. He sprang for­ward, took her in his arms, and kissed her. Then he held her from him a lit­tle, looked at her again, and kissed her again; and with that last kiss he whis­pered, “You good sis­ter. You saved me, Char­lotte, with that five hun­dred pounds.”

“I would have giv­en it had it been my all, it been fifty times as much, Har­ry.”

There was no need to say an­oth­er word. Har­ry and Char­lotte un­der­stood each oth­er, and Har­ry turned the con­ver­sa­tion up­on his cousin.

“This In­di­an fel­low, this San­dal of the Brah­mini­cal caste, what is he like, Charley?”

“He does not ad­mire me, Har­ry; so how can I ad­mire him?”

“Then there must be some­thing wrong with him in the fun­da­men­tals; a nat­ural-​born in­abil­ity to ad­mire what is love­ly and good.”

“You mustn't say such a thing as that, Har­ry. I am sure that Sophia is en­gaged to him.”

“Does fa­ther like him?”

“Not much; but Julius is a San­dal, af­ter all, and”--

“Af­ter me, the next heir. Ex­act­ly. It shall not be my fault, Charley, if he does not stand a lit­tle far­ther off soon. I can get mar­ried too.”

“O Har­ry, if you on­ly would! It is your du­ty; and there is lit­tle Emi­ly Bev­er­ley. She is so beau­ti­ful and good, and she adores you, Har­ry.”

“Dear lit­tle Em­my. I used to love Em­my a long time ago.”

“It would make fa­ther so hap­py, and moth­er and me too. And the Bev­er­leys are re­lat­ed to moth­er,--and isn't moth­er sweet. Fa­ther was say­ing”--

At that mo­ment the squire en­tered the room. His face was a lit­tle se­vere; but the mo­ment his eyes fell up­on Char­lotte and Har­ry, ev­ery line of stern­ness was gone like a flash. Har­ry's arm was round his sis­ter's waist, her head against his shoul­der; but in a mo­ment he gen­tly re­leased him­self, and went to his fa­ther. And in his nine­teenth-​cen­tu­ry way he said what the erring son of old said, “Fa­ther, I have not done right late­ly. I am very sor­ry.”

“Say no more, Har­ry, my lad. There shall be no back reck­on­ing be­tween you and me. You have been mixed up with a sight of fol­lies, but you can over-​get all that. You take af­ter me in looks. Up-​sit­ting and down-​sit­ting, you are my son. You come of a good kind; you have a kind heart and plen­ty of dint;[Dint, en­er­gy.] now, then, make a fresh start, Har­ry. Oh, my dear, dear son!” The fa­ther's eyes were full of tears, his face shone with love, and he held the young man's hand in a clasp which for­gave ev­ery thing in the past, and promised ev­ery­thing for the fu­ture.

Then Julius and Sophia came in, and there was bare­ly time to in­tro­duce the young men be­fore din­ner was served. They dis­liked each oth­er on sight; in­deed, the dis­like was an­te­ri­or to sight, and may be said to have com­menced when Har­ry first heard how thor­ough­ly at home Julius had made him­self at Seat-​San­dal, and when Julius first saw what a de­sir­able es­tate and fine old “seat” Har­ry's ex­is­tence de­prived him of. And in half an hour this gen­er­al aver­sion be­gan to par­tic­ular­ize it­self. The slim, suave youth, with his black eyes and soft speech, and small hands and feet, seemed to Har­ry San­dal in ev­ery re­spect an in­ter­lop­er. The Sax­on in this San­dal was lost in the Ori­en­tal. The two races were, in­deed, dis­tinct­ly ev­ident in the two men in many ways, but no­tice­ably in their eyes: Har­ry's be­ing large, blue, and wide open; those of Julius, very black; and in their long, nar­row set­ting and dreamy look, ex­press­ing cen­turies of tran­quil con­tem­pla­tion.

But the din­ner passed off very pleas­ant­ly, more so than fam­ily fes­ti­vals usu­al­ly pass. Af­ter it the lovers went in­to pri­vate ses­sion to con­sid­er whether they should de­clare their new re­la­tion­ship dur­ing the evening, or wait un­til Julius could have a pri­vate au­di­ence with the squire. Sophia was in­clined to the first course, be­cause of the pres­ence of the rec­tor. She felt that his bless­ing on her be­trothal would add a re­li­gious grace to the event, but Julius was averse to speak on any mat­ter so pri­vate to him­self be­fore Har­ry San­dal. He felt that he could nei­ther en­dure his con­grat­ula­tions nor his dis­sent; that, in fact, he did not want his opin­ion on the mat­ter at all. Be­sides, he had de­ter­mined to have but one dis­cus­sion of the af­fair, and that must in­clude all per­tain­ing to Sophia's rights and her per­son­al for­tune.

While they were de­cid­ing this mo­men­tous ques­tion, the rec­tor and Char­lotte were singing over the car­ols for the Christ­mas ser­vice; the squire was smok­ing and lis­ten­ing; and Har­ry was talk­ing in a low voice to his moth­er. But af­ter the rec­tor had gone, it be­came very dif­fi­cult to avoid a feel­ing of _en­nui_ and re­straint, al­though it was Christ­mas Eve. Mrs. San­dal soon went in­to the house­keep­er's room to as­sist in the prepa­ra­tion of the Yule ham­pers for the fam­ilies of the men who worked on the es­tate. San­dal fell in­to a mus­ing fit, and soon ap­peared to be doz­ing; al­though Char­lotte saw that he oc­ca­sion­al­ly opened his eyes, and looked at the whis­per­ing lovers, or else shot her a glance full of sym­pa­thet­ic in­tel­li­gence.

Mu­sic has many ac­cord­ing charms, and Char­lotte tried it, but with small suc­cess. Julius and Sophia had a song in their own hearts, and this night they knew no oth­er. Har­ry loved his sis­ter very dear­ly, but he was not in­clined to “car­olling;” and the re­pres­sion and con­straint were soon ev­ident through all the con­ven­tion­al ef­forts to be “mer­ry.” It was the squire who fi­nal­ly hit up­on the cir­cum­stance which tid­ed over the evening, and sent ev­ery one to bed in a rip­ple of laugh­ter. For, when the pi­ano was closed, he opened his eyes, and said, “Sophia, your moth­er tells me she has had a very nice Christ­mas present from the lit­tle maid you took such a lik­ing to,--lit­tle Agnes Bul­teel. It is a car­riage hap made of sheep­skins white as the snow, and from some new breed of sheep sure­ly; for the wool is longer and silki­er than ev­er I saw.”

“Agnes Bul­teel!” cried Char­lotte. “O Sophia! where are her last let­ters? I am sure fa­ther would like to hear about Joe and the jol­ly-​jist.”

“Joe Bul­teel is no fool,” said the squire warm­ly. “It is the way around here to laugh a bit at Joe; but Joe aims to do right, and he is a very spir­ity lad. What are you and Sophia laugh­ing at? Eh? What?”

“Get the let­ters, Sophia. Julius and Har­ry will en­joy them I know. Har­ry must re­mem­ber Joe Bul­teel.”

“Cer­tain­ly. Joe has car­ried my line and creel many a day. Trout couldn't fool Joe. He was the one to find plovers' eggs, and to spot a blae­ber­ry patch. Joe has some sens­es or­di­nary peo­ple do not have, I think. I should like to hear about Joe and the _what_?”

“The jol­ly-​jist,--Pro­fes­sor Sedg­wick re­al­ly. Joe has been on the fells with the pro­fes­sor.”

So they drew around the fire, and Sophia went for the let­ters. She was a good read­er, and could give the coun­ty pe­cu­liar­ities with all their quaint vari­ations of mood and tem­per and ac­cent. She was quite aware that the read­ing would ex­hib­it her in an en­tire­ly new _role_ to Julius, and she en­tered up­on the task with all the con­fi­dence and en­thu­si­asm which in­sured the en­ter­tain­ment. And as both Pro­fes­sor Sedg­wick and Joe Bul­teel were well known to the squire and Har­ry, they en­tered in­to the joke al­so with all their hearts; and one peal of laugh­ter fol­lowed an­oth­er, as the squire's com­ments made many a dis­tinct ad­di­tion to the un­con­scious hu­mor of the let­ters.

At that point of the sto­ry where Joe had tri­umphant­ly pock­et­ed his last five shillings, and gone home re­flect­ing on what a “fa­mous job it would be to sell all the stones on their fell at five shillings a lit­tle bag­ful,” Mrs. San­dal en­tered. A ser­vant fol­lowed with spiced wine and dain­ty bits of cake and pas­try; and then, af­ter a mer­ry in­ter­val of com­ment and re­fresh­ment, Sophia re­sumed the nar­ra­tive.

All this hap­pened at the end of May, Miss San­dal; and one day last Au­gust fa­ther went down Lor­ton way, and it was gay­ly late when he got home. As he was sit­ting on his own side the fire, try­ing to loose the but­tons of his spats, he said to Joe, “I called at Skeal-​Hill on my road home.” Moth­er was knit­ting at her side of the hearth. She hadn't opened her mouth since fa­ther came home; nay, she hadn't so much as looked at him af­ter the one hard glow­er that she gave him at first; but when he said he'd been at Skeal-​Hill, she gave a grunt, and said, as if she spoke to no­body but her­self, “Ay, a blind body might see that.”--“I was speak­ing to Joe,” said fa­ther. “Joe,” said he again, “I was at Skeal-​Hill,”--moth­er gave an­oth­er grunt then,--“and they told me that thy old friend the jol­ly-​jist is back again. I think thou had bet­ter step down, and see if he wants to buy any more bro­ken stones; old Abra­ham has a fine heap or two ly­ing aside Kir­gat.” Joe thought he had done many a dafter thing than take fa­ther at his word, whether he meant it or not; and so thought, so done, for next morn­ing he took him­self off to Skeal-​Hill.

When he got there, and asked if the jol­ly-​jist was stir­ring yet, one ser­vant snort­ed, and an­oth­er grunt­ed, till Joe got rather mad­dish; but at last one of them skip­jacks of fel­lows, that wear a lit­tle jack­et like a lass's bed­gown, said he would see. He came back laugh­ing, and said, “Come this way, Joe.” Well, our Joe fol­lowed him till he stopped be­fore a room door; and he gave a lit­tle knock, and then opened it, and says he, “Joe, sir.” Joe wasn't go­ing to stand that; and he said, “'Joe, sir,' he'll ken its 'Joe, sir,' as soon as he sees the face of me. And get out with thy 'Joe, sir,' or I'll make thee laugh at the wrong side of that ug­ly face of thine.” With that the fel­low skipped out of our Joe's way gay­ly sharp, and Joe stepped qui­et­ly in­to the room.

There the lit­tle old gen­tle­man was sit­ting at a ta­ble writ­ing,--gray hair, spec­ta­cles, white neck-​cloth, black clothes,--just as if he had nev­er ei­ther doffed or donned him­self since he went away. But be­fore Joe could put out his hand, or say a civ­il word to him, he glint­ed up at Joe through his spec­ta­cles very fierce like, and grunt­ed out some­thing about won­der­ing how Joe durst show his face again. Well, that put the cap on all for poor Joe. He had thought over what fa­ther said, and _how_ he said it, on his road down till he found him­self get­ting rather mad about it; and the way they all snort­ed and laughed when he came to Skeal-​Hill made him mad­der; and that bed­gown fel­low, with his “Joe, sir,” made him mad­der than ev­er; but when the old jol­ly-​jist--that he thought would be so fain to see him, if it was on­ly for the sake of their sprogue on the fells to­geth­er--when he won­dered “how Joe durst show his face there,” it set Joe rantin' mad, and he _did_ make a burst.

At this point the squire was laugh­ing so nois­ily that Sophia had to stop; and his hearty _ha, ha, ha_! was so con­ta­gious, that Har­ry and Julius and Char­lotte, and even Mrs. San­dal, echoed it in a va­ri­ety of mer­ry peals. Sophia was calmer. She sat by the lamp, pleas­ant­ly con­scious of the amuse­ment she was giv­ing; and, con­sid­er­ing that she had al­ready laughed the cir­cum­stance out in her room, quite as well en­ter­tained as any of the par­ty. In a few min­utes the squire re­cov­ered him­self. “Let us have the rest now, Sophia. I'd have giv­en a gold guinea to have heard Joe's 'burst.'”

“Show my face?” said Joe; “and what should I show, then? If it comes to show­ing faces, I've a bet­ter face to show than ev­er be­longed to one of your breed, if the rest of them are aught like the sam­ple they have sent us. But if you must know,” said Joe, “I come of a stock that nev­er would be fright­ened to show their face to a king, let alone an old noo­dles that calls him­self a jol­ly-​jist. And I de­fy the face of clay,” said Joe, “to show that any of us ev­er did aught he need to be ashamed of, wher­ev­er we show our faces. Dare to show my face, eh?” said Joe again, “My song! but this is a bon­nie wel­come to give a fel­low that has come so far to see you such a hot morn­ing.” Joe said a deal more of the same make; and all the time he was say­ing it, the old man laid him­self back in his great chair, and kept twid­dling his thumbs, and glanc­ing up at Joe with a half-​smirk on his face, as if he had got some­thing very fun­ny be­fore him.

“Joe is like all these shep­herd lads,” said the squire, “as in­de­pen­dent as nev­er was. They are a man­ly race, but the Bul­teels all come of a good kind.”

Julius laughed scorn­ful­ly, but the squire took him up very short. “You need not laugh, nephew. It is as I say. The Bul­teels are as good stock as the San­dals; a fine old fam­ily, and, like the San­dals, at home here when the Con­queror came. Joe would do the right thing I'll be bound. Let us hear if he didn't, Sophia.”

Af­ter a while Joe stopped, for he had run him­self very near short of wind; and he be­gan rather to think shame of shout­ing and bel­ler­ing so at an old man, and him as whisht as a trout through it all. And when Joe pulled in, he on­ly said, as qui­et­ly as ev­er was, that Joe was a “nat­ural cu­rios­ity.”

Joe didn't know very well what this meant; but he thought it was sauce, and it had like to have set him off again; but he beat him­self down as well as he could, and he said, “Have you any thing against me? If you have, speak it out like a man; and don't sit there twid­dling your thumbs, and call­ing folks out of their names in this road.” Then it came out plain enough. All this ill-​na­ture, Miss San­dal, was just be­cause poor Joe hadn't brought him the same stones as he had gath­ered on the fells; and he said that chang­ing them was ei­ther a very dirty trick, or a very clum­sy joke.

“Trick,” said Joe. “_Joke_, did you say? It was rather­ly past a joke to ex­pect me to car­ry a load of bro­ken stones all the way here, when there was plen­ty on the spot. I'm not such a fool as you've tak­en me for,” said Joe. The jol­ly-​jist took off his spec­ta­cles, and glow­ered at Joe with­out them. Then he put them on again, and glow­ered at Joe with them; and then he laughed, and asked Joe, if he thought there could be no dif­fer­ence in stones. “Why!” an­swered Joe, “you hard­ly have the face to tell me that one bag of stones isn't as good as an­oth­er bag of stones; and sure­ly to man you'll nev­er be so con­ceit­ed as to say that you can break stones bet­ter than old Abra­ham Atchisson, who breaks them for his bread, and breaks them all day long and ev­ery day.”

With that the old man laughed again, and told Joe to sit down; and then he asked him what he thought made him take so much trou­ble seek­ing bits of stone on the fells, if he could get what he want­ed on the road-​side. “Well,” Joe said, “if I must tell you the truth, I thought you were rather soft in the head; but it made no mat­ter what I thought, so long as you paid me so well for go­ing with you.” As Joe said this, it came in­to his head that it was bet­ter to flat­ter a fool than to fight him; and af­ter all, that there might be some­thing in the old man lik­ing stones of his own break­ing bet­ter than those of oth­er folks' break­ing. We all think the most of what we have had a hand in our­selves, don't we Miss San­dal? It's noth­ing but nat­ural. And as soon as this run, through Joe's head, he found him­self get­ting mid­dling sor­ry for the old man; and he said, “What will you give me to get you your own bits of stones back again?”

He cocked up his ears at that, and asked if his “spec­iments,” as he called them, were safe. “Ay,” said Joe, “they are safe enough. No­body here­about thinks a lit­tle lot of stones worth med­dling with, so long as they don't lie in their road.” With that the jol­ly-​jist jumped up, and said Joe must have some­thing to eat and drink. Then Joe thought to him­self, “Come, come, we are get­ting back to our own mense­ful way again.” But he would not stir a peg till he heard what he was to have for get­ting the stones again; for Joe knew he would nev­er hear the last of it, if he came home emp­ty-​hand­ed. They made it all right very soon, how­ev­er; and the old man went up-​stairs, and brought down the two leather bags, and gave them to Joe to car­ry, as if noth­ing had hap­pened; and off they start­ed, very like as they did be­fore.

The Skeal-​Hill folk all gath­ered to­geth­er about the door to look af­ter them, as if they had been a show; but they nei­ther of them mind­ed for that, but walked away as thick as inkle-​weavers till they got to the foot of our great mead­ow, where the stones were all ly­ing just as Joe had turned them out of the bags, on­ly rather grown over with grass. And as Joe picked them up one by one, and hand­ed them to the old jol­ly-​jist, it did Joe's heart good to see how pleased he looked. He wiped them on his coat-​cuff, and wet them, and glow­ered at them through his spec­ta­cles, as if they were some­thing good to eat, and he was very hun­gry; and then he packed them away in­to the bags till they were both chock full again.

Well, the bar­gain was, that Joe should car­ry them back to Skeal-​Hill; so back they put, the jol­ly-​jist watch­ing his bags all the way, as if they were full of gold­en guineas, and our Joe a thief. When they got there, he made Joe take them right in­to the par­lor; and the first thing he did was to call for some red wax and a light, and he clapped a great splatch of a seal on ei­ther bag; and then he looked at Joe, and gave a lit­tle grunt of a laugh, and a smar­tish wag of the head, as much as to say, “Do it again, Joe, if you can.” But af­ter that he said, “Here, Joe, is five shillings for restor­ing my spec­iments, and here is an­oth­er five shillings for show­ing me a spec­iment of hu­man na­ture that I did not be­lieve in un­til this day.” [This sto­ry is told of Pro­fes­sor Sedg­wick in broad _pa­tois_ by Alexan­der Craig Gib­son, F.S.A.]

“That is good,” cried the squire, clap­ping his knee em­phat­ical­ly. “It was like the pro­fes­sor, and it was like Joe Bul­teel. The sto­ry does them both cred­it. I am glad I heard it. Al­ice, fill our glass­es again.” Then he stood up, and looked around with a smile.

"God's bless­ing on this house, and on all be­neath its roof-​tree!

"Wife and chil­dren, a mer­ry Christ­mas to you!

“Friends and serv­ing hands, a mer­ry Christ­mas to you!”